The Sum of its Parts
by Lostinfic
Summary: This is the story of a good man straying, of an escort breaking her own rules and of finding light when you didn't even know you were in the dark. It's about the chaos of lust and love. It's a series of encounters that may not amount to many hours, but the whole is bigger than the sum of its parts. More info inside.
1. Broadchurch, August 2013

Inspired by "(500) Days of Summer", this goes back and forth between 2009, the year Hardy and Hannah met, 2011, the last year of their liaison before he disappeared from her life, and 2013, after the events of Broadchurch, when Hardy decides to find her again, hoping for a second chance and a better life.

It contains references to all seasons of Secret Diary of a Call Girl and Broadchurch.

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><p><strong>:: Broadchurch, August 2013::<strong>

Alec Hardy wakes up at 6 am, takes a shower, puts on his suit and steps outside his hotel room. Then it hits him: he has nowhere to go.

No job, no home, no health.

Before coming to Broadchurch, he had a wife and a daughter, a mortgage and a brand new car. He had Sundays with the in-laws, laundry on Tuesdays, take-out on Thursdays and dinners with friends. He had the mild satisfaction that comes from knowing he'd fulfilled society's expectations of him, and that helped him sleep at night.

Before coming to Broadchurch, he had Hannah. Witty and sexy, kind and funny Hannah. His blessing and his downfall. The thought of her waiting in vain for him at the train station still haunts him. He'd promised… Of all his nightmares, it's his favorite.

"What about you, what will you do now?" Ellie had asked yesterday, as they sat on a bench in the windy harbour.

Alec had looked over at the beach, at the boulders relentlessly eroded by the waves but never entirely swept away. He felt like that, worn out and fragmented, more than he should be at his age. Sometimes, he wished the waves would swallow him up entirely.

"Oh I'm done, medical'd out, it's all over," he'd said for lack of a better answer.

Today, he knows what he will do now: Find Hannah.

No job, no home, no health: nothing to lose.

Penance is over.


	2. London, January 2011

A/N: this chapter has been modified to follow this site's guidelines on fic ratings (a more explicit version is available on Ao3).

A/N 2: This story contains references to all seasons of Secret Diary of a Call Girl and Broadchruch.

Thanks for reading!

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><p><strong>:: London, January 2011 ::<strong>

The day everything changed or rather the day Hannah realized things were different between them. And once she became aware of this, there was no going back.

Hardy was on her as soon as he'd crossed the threshold of her flat. Any other client, she would have stopped to collect the money and put him in a shower. But she let Hardy capture her mouth and hold her face and trap her against the wall. She let him because she'd missed him as much as he seemed to have missed her. Two months.

That's when she felt it, the shift in their relationship. She felt it in the urgency of his bruising kisses and in the repressed longing surging in her chest. She felt it in the synchronization of their heartbeats.

She reached for his belt buckle, ready for him, had been all day thinking of his visit. There was no point in delaying this by removing their clothes beforehand. He could take her against the wall. There would be time for sensuality later on.

She'd managed to unbuckle his belt and was struggling with the button of his trousers when his fingers encircled her wrists and stopped her. She looked up at him in confusion.

"Just let me kiss you," he said.

His hazel eyes burned as he brought her hands above her head, holding them there. She let him, she trusted him. He dipped his head, pressing his mouth to hers once more, firm lips moving in sync. She reacquainted herself with the Earl Grey on his breath, the stubble on his cheeks and those long fingers pressing in her flesh.

Still hot and needy, she couldn't help but squirm under him, and with his free hand, he pinned her hip to the wall, even her robe falling open didn't deter him. He only relaxed his grip when she became more pliant, melting into the kiss. She let go completely, kissing him until there was nothing but this silent communication. The world around her faded away. He was here at last.

When he dropped her wrists, she held on to him with her arms around his neck and when they stopped kissing, they remained embraced. He sighed in her hair as if he'd been holding his breath since they'd last seen each other. The words "I missed you" scratched her throat, trying to come out past her lips but she swallowed them.

He'd been coming to London every three weeks for the last year. He attended workshops at the Scotland Yard Crime Academy, it was part of his training to go from detective sergeant to detective inspector. The classes had stopped in November, for the holidays, and she hadn't seen him since.

There'd been a handful of texts and a call on New Year's Day. He'd gone to a deserted and freezing car park on the edge of Sandbrook — his way of compartmentalizing — just to ring her. He was not the only client to wish her a happy new year, but he was the only one she'd talked with until her phone battery ran out.

The next day, Ben had told her "you talk a lot about this Hardy bloke, you sure he's just a client" and she hadn't been able to give him a definitive answer.

With Hardy, the line between client and friend had always been blurred, if it had ever existed at all. She had tried being Belle with him but couldn't keep it up for long. Given how they'd met and their subsequent encounters, it was not so surprising that this was her most genuine relationship outside of Ben.

She was in too deep and she knew it.

She had tried not to count the days until their next encounter, and she had suppressed any feeling sneaking up on her whenever something reminded her of him. She'd done a good job of it too, until she'd opened the door and he'd kissed her. And now he was holding her and already she was apprehending the next three weeks without him. His visits always seemed over too quickly.

Despite this quiet embrace and calm interlude, Hannah was no less aroused, and a slight cant of her hips revealed he was in much the same mood. She ran her fingertips across his scalp the way she knew he liked and she felt something akin to a purr rumble in his chest. He nuzzled her throat and sucked on her pulse point, trailed his lips down her neck to her collarbone, then lower still, nipping and kissing. She quickly discarded the garment along with her robe, but he continued lower, and a shiver of excitement ran up her spine at the promise of his mouth between her legs.

He peeled off her knickers and pulled one of her legs over his shoulder. There was no need to tease, not today, and he dove right in, making her sigh with the first swipe. There was something so fundamentally shameless about a man going down on her with his coat still on, and she reveled in it, in this display of wantonness and hunger.

She grappled for purchase on the wall, nails scratching at the paint to hold on to something through the waves of pleasure he brought on. She gripped his hair.

"Fuck! Fingers," she whimpered, unable to form a whole sentence.

His thrust quickened to match the rhythm of her hips. A curl of his fingers and she shattered with a deep moan.

She looked down at him, obscenely handsome with his disheveled hair and glistening lips. She slid down the wall to where he was kneeling and pulled on his tie to kiss him lazily, tasting herself on his lips.

This time, when she unfastened his trousers, he didn't stop her. She pushed him on his back, barely letting him get rid of his coat.

"You're in a rush," he quipped.

"Two months!" she replied, like she hadn't been having sex multiple times a weeks during that time.

But it just wasn't the same.

He chuckled and brought her mouth to his, while he frantically tried to kick off his shoes and pants. She reached for the condom hidden in her thigh-high stockings and, in no time, she was sinking down on him with practised ease.

For a while, he was content to let her do all the work, admiring the sensual roll of her hips and the way she caressed her own body for his benefit. But soon, he rolled them over and the cold ceramic on her back told her they were in the kitchen. The discomfort was quickly replaced by the pleasure brought on by Hardy's deep thrusts.

More than the inherent sexual gratification, the sight of him losing control between her legs, was exquisite. He shifted his hips, and she raked her nails down his back, vaguely aware she shouldn't, but his own teeth were marking her.

She knew he was close and trying to hold back for her sake but it made his pace slightly off.

"Do it," she urged him.

Without more encouragement, he started driving in her, chasing his own release. She wrapped her legs around his waist, keeping him there until she'd reached her climax too.

He rolled off her and hit his head against a kitchen chair, he winced then looked down his body.

"I look daft with my tie still on and no pants."

"Yeah you do, you should take it all off."

She cuddled up to him, resting her head on his chest. He ran the back of his fingers along her jaw, a touch that never failed to send her heart aflutter.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, her defenses down in the afterglow of her orgasm.

"It's good to be back."

He tightened his arms around her.

After his shower, Hardy joined Hannah in the living room. His hair was wet and he was only wearing a pair of black briefs. He looked puzzled. His eyes shifted between her, wearing nothing but a kimono, and the take-out boxes from the restaurant across the street, emanating the warm aromas of Greek food

"You went out like that?"

"No, they deliver now, well for me they do."

He snorted.

"Has a man ever said no to you?"

"You did."

He picked a spanakopita out of a box, swallowed it in three bites and sucked the grease off his thumb.

"Oh, almost forgot."

He rose rapidly and picked his trousers off the kitchen floor.

"Is it my Christmas gift?" Hannah asked with a coy smile.

Alec froze, then grimaced. She was just messing with him but he didn't seem to have caught on, and she became genuinely excited at the prospect of receiving an unexpected gift.

He opened his wallet and pulled out a thin pink envelope that he gave her. She found in it a £20 gift card to La Senza. A fake smile straining her lips, she looked up at him.

"Oh that's- that's nice."

Alec carded a hand through his hair, almost pulling on it.

"Naaw, it's a rubbish gift."

"Yeah, it is!"

She covered her mouth, trying to hold back a laugh.

He explained that he'd been talking about the holidays with one of his colleagues that morning, and he happened to comment on how women are so much more thoughtful about presents. And Alec had panicked, afraid she might have a gift for him. So he'd gone to the mall during his lunch break but he only had 20 quid on him, he couldn't pay with the credit card, and it was all he could find.

"I do have my eyes on a pair of fuzzy pink slippers," she said, a teasing tongue peeking out through her smiling lips.

He sulked, which unfortunately made her crack up again. He took himself so seriously sometimes, she could never resist taunting him.

He pulled the money for the appointment out of his wallet, what he was really going to get from his trousers, and practically threw it at her.

"Sorry! I'm glad you thought about me, I really am. And I bet I can find something you'll like… albeit in cheap nylon."

The corners of his mouth quirked at that.

"Then you won't mind if I rip it off you?"

"That's the spirit!"

She pulled on his hand and he sat beside her on the shaggy carpet. She kissed him, automatically erasing any remnant of a frown. As an impromptu Christmas present, she gave him back the money he'd just paid her. It was a bad idea, she only ever did that when she screwed up on a job, now she was screwing up in a completely different way. But she refused to dwell on that.

They ate gyros, licking the overflowing tzatziki off their fingers, and watched a rerun of the _Big Fat Quiz of the Year_. They tried answering the questions that the panelists were asked about the past year's events and it quickly turned into a competition. Hannah won. Although Hardy did well when it came to political events, he had very little knowledge of pop music and reality TV.

Eventually, they relocated to the bed and talked about what they'd done during Christmas time.

With her young nephew, Christmas had gotten some of its magic back for the Baxter family. She'd followed Alec's advice on dealing with her mother and had a good time, as always, with her father, so it had been quite nice overall. Although the highlight of her holiday was definitely that wild night out with her friends. And maybe that ski trip in the Alps with a client, not that they'd done much skiing. The cabin was very luxurious.

Alec had gone to Scotland to see his brothers and sisters. They'd hiked up a trail in the highlands to find snow and make snowmen. He gushed about his daughter's Christmas recital, always the proud father.

He mentioned his wife as well. He never complained about her, not that he talked about her very often, but Hannah had always wondered why he came to her if she was so nice.

"People fall out of love, it's a sad reality," he'd told her once.

She did get the feeling that they were more roommates and colleagues than a couple. For all she knew, he hadn't even had sex in the last two months. Somehow, that thought pleased her even though a foolish part of her hoped that it was not the only reason why he visited.

They'd stopped talking, content to just lay on the purple bed sheets in silence. Hannah made two of her fingers walk on his leg, up his knee, pretending it was a tough hike, then over his thigh and past his hip. The muscles of his abdomen flexed when her hand crossed it and she felt him twitch against her forearm but ignored it. She continued, made her fingers "trip" in his belly button with a chuckle, and walk up his sternum. Then a giant step from his clavicle to his chin. He kissed her digits when they walked over his lips. She made her fingers bounce up on his nose and slide to his forehead. Five fingers delved in his hair, raking his scalp, to the back of his head, and then, she pulled him in for a kiss.

He molded his body to hers and desire wrapped around their spines. They rediscovered each other with all their senses until they'd lost track of where one ended and the other began. With deep, slow thrusts he made the pleasure last. And for a long time there was nothing but fervent caresses and whispered secrets.

He dozed off after that. It had been a long day for him, travelling to London in the morning and attending workshops all day, and he had another day of training tomorrow before driving back. She lay on her side, head propped up on her hand and looked at his peaceful form in the soft red glow of her bedside lamp. He wasn't conventionally good looking with his pointy nose and scraggly hair, but there was something very authentic about it all.

When he woke up, he emitted a series of groggy, whiny moans and looked at the time on her phone with squinting eyes. It was past midnight.

"Sorry," he mumbled and started standing up.

But Hannah put a leg over his and her arm securely across his torso.

"Stay."

"You sure?" he asked, barely holding back a grin.

"Yeah."

And so it began.


	3. Sandbrook, summer 2009

TW: mention of blood

**:: Sandbrook, summer 2009 ::**

"Ringo! Ringo!" Alec shouted, "Bloody dog!"

He cursed as a tree branch scratched his face and thistles pricked his hands. A few more steps and he emerged out of the wood into a small clearing. On the other side of the small grassy area, through the trees, he could see Rupert Cowell's mansion and he hoped his idiot of a dog hadn't trespassed on the billionaire's estate.

He sighed in exasperation, scanning the woods with one hand on his hip, the other shielding his eyes from the bright summer sun.

"Oi, you're in my spot!"

Alec spun around, startled by the feminine voice.

"You!"

He pointed accusingly at the blonde woman walking towards him.

"Me!" She laughed and pulled her Ray-Bans over her head to take a better look at him. "Alec Hardy, didn't think I'd see you again."

She spread a striped beach towel on the grass, mindful of the clusters of tiny white flowers and wild strawberries. He gawked at her. Sitting on one end of the towel, she patted the other end in invitation.

"I thought I'd made you up," Alec finally said as he sat down next to her, elbows on his knees.

"Are you prone to hallucinations?"

"No, just that the day we met I… it was a strange day." Strange might not be the best word to describe the day his mother had died but it would have to do for now. "What are you doing here?"

"Tanning," she replied with an impish smile.

She untied the ribbon of her wrap dress and shrugged it off her shoulders, revealing a blue bikini. As she spread sunscreen lotion over her skin, he vaguely registered her words about being hired by Rupert Cowell for the week and coming to this clearing for some much needed privacy.

"I didn't know Cowell was in the movie industry."

Hannah frowned at his statement, as if it didn't make sense. The first time he'd met her, she was there to film a drama. She corrected his assumption, explaining that she was indeed with a film producer, Mr. Rothman, but didn't have anything to do with the actual filming.

At that moment, Hardy realized the extent of the fantasy he'd created around her despite having met her only once. He'd imagined she was an aspiring actress or maybe a film student, hopefully not too young. Her relationship with the American producer was just a fling. He'd thought she must have an exciting, sort of glamourous life in London, and she'd let him fuck her on the kitchen table.

As he recalled the fantasies he'd made up over the last weeks, his eyes drifted over her body, from her toned stomach, over her breasts barely covered by the halter top and up to her delicious mouth.

"Would you like to kiss me again?" she asked in a seductive voice, leaning further on the arm closest to him.

He looked at her lips, red and opened like poppies. His own mouth went dry.

"… I shouldn't."

"It's not what I asked."

The mischievous twinkle in her eyes made him want to do bad things in a way he never had before. This woman was trouble and temptation incarnate. Still, he managed to look away, letting out a humourless laughter to ease the tension in his stomach. He focused on a ladybug walking across his shoe.

"Got yourself a girlfriend since the last time we met, then? That would explain the clean shave." She stroked his smooth cheek and he fought the impulse to lean into her touch. "I liked you better with a bit of scruff."

He neither confirmed nor denied her statement.

"You here for Cowell's party?" he asked in an attempt to distract himself.

"Yeah, how do you know about that? I thought it was all hush-hush."

"Detective sergeant, remember?"

Rupert Cowell's annual gathering of the richest, most influential men in Britain: alcohol, drugs and escorts. Seven days of depravity. Everyone at the police station knew what was going on. Yet, no matter how illicit the activities, they were forbidden to intervene unless they were called. Orders from up above that greatly upset Hardy's work ethic.

"He hired me," Hannah explained, "to provide entertainment for the gents."

It took Alec a moment to understand what she'd just said, his mind rebelled against the information. Someone else might not have known the kind of entertainment she was referring to, but he certainly did.

"Only the gents?" he asked carefully.

"If their wives want to join in, I'm not opposed to it."

She said it with a shrug, but her eyes searching his face, monitoring his reaction, betrayed her apprehension.

He surveyed her more closely, looking for signs of addiction or abuse, but her skin was clear, her hair shiny, her eyes bright, she had a healthy weight and no tremors in her hands.

He shifted uncomfortably, the conflict in his mind making him jittery. Her profession clashed with his values but she'd been kind to him, more than any stranger had to be. He'd kissed her and it had made him feel joyful instead of guilty. He'd thought he knew her but he didn't at all. And despite all these contradictions and the little voice in his head that told him he shouldn't, he stayed beside her.

She lay down on her back, arms under her head, her sun-kissed skin stretching over her bones. Somehow, it reminded him of a trip to the convenience store with his mother when he was young. There were rows of candy bars on display next to the cash register. He really wanted one but hadn't even dared ask his mother, knowing the answer in advance. While she was talking to the clerk, he'd ran the tip of his fingers along them as if he could have tasted the chocolate through his skin. And that's how he felt right now, with so much of her flesh on display, within reach, he could oh so easily touch her and taste her. And she'd let hi-m too. He imagined the ripple of her ribs under his palms and the swell of her breasts. And he remembered the sweet taste of her tongue, the fullness of her lips and how it had made him feel dizzy in the best way.

Unconsciously, the tip of his fingers brushed slowly along the curve of her waist. The contact sent a jolt up his arm, echoing in his chest. He reached the tie of the bikini bottom just below her protruding hipbone. The string would easily be untied with a sharp tug, he twirled it around his index. Their eyes met and there was something momentous in that look.

"Do it," she said in a hoarse voice.

He hesitated. But he couldn't, not so close to home. Today, he had no excuse to behave irrationally.

"I can't."

He gathered the last shreds of moral sense he had and stood up. He mumbled something about dogs and lunch break and getting back to work. He walked away with long strides, short of running, until Hannah called his name.

"Just because I'm an escort doesn't mean— I didn't do that because… I actually do like you."

She ran a hand over her collarbone and waited for a reply.

"I don't even know your name," was all he said.

"Hannah. Hannah Baxter."

"Ok."

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><p>That afternoon, as he sat in the patrol car with DS Radcliffe, he replayed in his mind both encounters he'd had with Hannah. Her name looped in his mind, caressed his tongue, tickled his lips. He wanted to say it out loud, test the feel of it, shout it, but not with his partner there. He could hardly make sense of it all. He'd done the right thing by walking away yet he regretted doing it.<p>

He considered talking about it with Radcliffe. His colleague, with his curly blond hair and blue eyes, had the kind of bad boy/surfer look that got him into all sorts of trouble with women. Maybe he could understand the predicament he was in. After all, despite being Hardy's opposite, they'd been partners for five years, he was the closest thing he had to a best mate.

"Say you met a girl— woman, and she kissed you, but you didn't know anything about her—"

"Shit man!" Radcliffe laughed roguishly, "And here I thought you were an upstanding member of this community."

"Urg, it's not like that, she kissed me first!"

"Look, just don't say anything to Liz, it's like an accident, happens to anyone, some girls, they go crazy for married men."

"Hannah's not like that, she's… nice," Hardy replied.

Radcliffe unexpectedly turned grave. He pointed an accusing finger at Alec.

"Now you listen to me: she's not nice, she's not anything. You forget about her. If you break Liz's heart, I'll make haggis out of your own bollocks and make you eat it, got it?"

Hardy winced at the mental image.

"Got it."

He slid forward in his seat and crossed his arms. Radcliffe was right, of course he was right. And yet…

"All units to Cowell's estate. Suspect is armed, brown, tall, 50. One down, one wounded. EMT on the way. Copy."

Hardy's heart lurched in his chest. Hannah. Radcliffe took hold of the receiver.

"Copy. ETA 14-50."

By the time they got to Cowell's estate, half the police officers from Sandbrook were there and the murderer had already been apprehended. The man was delirious and sweating profusely, the result of too much drugs. But Hardy didn't care about him, he scanned the crowd gathered around the mansion, heart pounding, searching for Hannah. Much to his relief, he saw that she wasn't the wounded one, another person was being patched up by an EMT.

He continued looking for her nonetheless, making his way around the house. When he finally found her, a woman was taking a blood sample from the splatter across her stomach. Hannah stood there, wearing nothing but red lingerie, she looked frail and shaken, a contrast to her usual confidence, still she held her head up high. He saw her as she was, just another human being pretending to be all right. In that moment, he decided that her profession didn't matter.

He crossed the garden urgently, removing his jacket as he walked. He draped it over Hannah's shoulders despite the SOCO's protests. He took her hands, rubbing them between his palms.

"I'm fine," she said with a quiver in her voice.

He saw that she was holding back, she would have sunk in his arms had he opened them.

He stayed by her side while a DI asked her questions and contact information. It would be a very straightforward case.

"Thank you Miss Baxter, we'll be in touch. You can get your things and Constable Morris will take you home now."

"Can't you do it?" Hannah asked Alec, worrying her bottom lip as she awaited his answer.

At that moment, he saw DS Radcliffe, not too far off, his eyes shifting between Hardy and the girl with a frown.

"Better not," Alec replied.

Her face fell and he looked down at his feet. Without another word, she followed the constable inside.

Hardy ran his hands down his face, feeling useless. He looked around, everyone else seemed occupied, including DS Radcliffe who was talking with someone else and walking away.

Hannah came back out, she had put on a pair of jean shorts and a white shirt, _sans _bra apparently. The constable was carrying her two suitcases. She walked away but not without one last look at Hardy over her shoulder.

Shite.

"Wait!"

Despite the grim circumstances, it was a beautiful day for a long ride, he put on his aviator sunglasses, rolled down the windows and let Hannah choose the music.

After witnessing a murder, she was understandably unnerved and she made up for it by talking: the food at Cowell's mansion, her accountant who liked being degraded, her friend Ben's engagement, the _Great British Bake Off_... She jumped from one subject to another and fiddled with anything within her reach. It might have annoyed him, all this chattiness, but she was actually really funny. He found himself filling the silence as well to make her feel better. He talked and he laughed more than he had in the last year it seemed. His cheeks ached from smiling.

It was a pleasant sensation, one he'd forgotten, to elicit laughter and smiles from a woman. Especially one as beautiful as her. She'd said she liked him, and maybe it was true.

He knew his wife had stopped loving him long ago, and so had he, but he always thought it was a small price to pay to keep the comfortable life they'd built together. However, now he wondered if she even liked him at all. Not that she showed any outward signs of hatred or disdain, just a sort of indifference. They did care for each other, inasmuch as the status quo they lived in could only be maintained if each played his part. It seemed like a mutually beneficial arrangement. He'd never doubted that until now. But when he looked at Hannah, he saw a glimpse of a happiness that could be.

The mere questioning of his relationship with Liz made him uneasy. It was madness anyway, an early midlife crisis. There were no tangible evidence that Hannah wanted more, and he believed in hard evidence. But his gut instinct had rarely led him astray.

He switched his attention back to Hannah.

"My mother bought a fish," she said, as she changed the album playing once again, "it's got pretty colours and all, but it's so sad, you know, going back and forth by himself in his bowl."

"Ugh, fish are depressing."

"Yeah! I prefer dogs, they're so happy. I'd have one, but I can't with clients coming to my flat. Did you ever find yours?"

He told her about his lunch break adventure. He found Ringo on the other side of a small river which it was afraid to cross of course. So Hardy had to take off his shoes and roll up his trousers to go get the dog. But he had slipped in the mud and fallen on his arse. Hannah burst out laughing. She had a bubbly laughter that made him beam with pride.

She asked about police dogs and his job. Some questions serious, some silly, unlike most people who seemed to think they knew everything about being a policeman because they watched CSI. He loved his job, took pride in being a detective sergeant and helping the community, and having someone take an interest to that was flattering.

They stopped for gas about halfway to London, in Basingstoke. She got out of the car too, standing close to him while he filled the tank. The coconut fragrance of the sunscreen lotion she'd applied earlier combined with the smell of petrol. When he went inside to buy a few things and pay, she followed, hooking a finger in his belt loop. She was still anxious, jittery even, so he put a comforting arm around her shoulders, rubbing up and down.

Sitting on the curb by the petrol station, in the only shadowed spot around, he ate junk food and she rolled a cigarette, cursing at her trembling fingers. Without a word, he took over for her while she ate the last of his crisps. Then they stretched their legs, walking around the block of red brick houses with neglected front lawns. Except for a few crickets and crows, the town was silent on this Wednesday afternoon, and so was Hannah now, biting her thumb nail between puffs. It worried him, and he found himself thinking that if he hadn't walked away from her earlier, she might never have witnessed the horrible scene she had. He took her hand.

They made it back to the car and he drove off with just one hand on the steering wheel as she'd taken possession of the other, holding it over her bare thighs.

After just a few minutes, Hannah yawned - she was getting drowsy now that the adrenaline had left her system. She rested her head on his shoulder, soft strands of hair tickling his neck, it smelled of summer, grass and sun. With the Rolling Stones playing and the sky turning pink, he felt like he was in a Hollywood movie.

He could have driven all the way to the other side of the country, until they'd reach the North Sea. He'd park the car on the beach and they'd eat fish and chips, sitting on the hood, and they'd sleep on the backseat under the old blanket he kept in the trunk. He almost missed the exit for London, and he wondered if it would have bothered her at all. Maybe another time.

The proverbial bubble was burst when they entered the London periphery and its traffic. He cursed at other drivers, and it woke Hannah up. He felt her chuckle against his arm when he mumbled profanities because of a reckless biker.

"Take a right on Blackfriars, it's a shortcut."

He couldn't find any parking space nearby so he settled on dropping her off in front of her building with the engine still running.

"I'd ask you to come up for a cuppa but …" she trailed off, "Anyway, I suppose I'll see you again, what with being a witness."

"I don't think I'll be on the case. Anyway, they already have your testimony and they caught the bloke. That's about it for you."

"Oh, ok…" She bit her thumb nail. "Well, thank you for taking me back, I realize you didn't have to."

He didn't know how to tell her that he was only doing for her what she'd done for him. His mother's death was still a fresh wound, and he felt too on edge around her to talk about it just now.

She looked at him with doe eyes, still holding his left hand. He skimmed her jaw with the back of his fingers and she turned her head to brush her mouth against them. He held her chin, grazing his thumb across her pink bottom lip. He could feel his resolve melt, so he decided on a kiss on her forehead before entirely giving in to temptation. What was supposed to be a quick peck, lingered on. She gripped his shirt, bunching it in her fist to keep him close. His lips stayed on her forehead, one hand in hers, the other leaving her chin to rest on the nape of her neck.

The strangest thing was that he didn't want to stay out of physical attraction like earlier, but from a genuine desire to take care of her. He imagined they could share a cup of tea, talk about the weather, maybe catch a movie. By then it would be too late to drive back to Sandbrook so he would sleep on her couch. Nothing wrong with that. But he couldn't risk it. Under his noble sentiments, there was still carnal desires lurking. He wouldn't spend the whole night on her couch.

"Do you have anyone to be with you tonight?" he asked.

"I have a friend, he'll come over if I call him, but I'd rather—"

"I can't."

"But you want to."

His arms wrapped around her, that was the only answer he would give her.

His lips moved to her temple where he laid another kiss, then to her cheekbone before backing off. She finally let go of his shirt with a deep sigh. She picked up her purse and started digging around it until she'd found a business card and a pen. She crossed out the number on the card and wrote another one instead.

"Call me, if it doesn't work out with your girlfriend."

"Hannah… please be careful."

She kissed his cheek and disappeared into the London fog.

That night, he could hardly sleep, his stomach in a knot from a combination of worry and unspent lust.

At 4am, he texted her.


	4. Broadchurch, August 2013 pt2

**:: Broadchurch, August 2013 ::**

Hardy sits on his bed, thumb hovering above the numbers on his phone, heart beating in his ears and his stomach twisting itself in a knot. Deciding to contact Hannah again is one thing, actually doing it is another.

He doesn't have to dig very deep to remember her phone number. She'd given it to him after he'd driven her from Sandbrook to London, he had to throw away her business card, but he had memorized the digits. All he has to do is press those numbers and maybe she'll want to listen to him, to his explanation. And, if all goes well, they can meet as soon as tomorrow. But it's more likely that she'll hang up on him. Or worse, won't remember him.

He had postponed the call for as long as he could, knowing she isn't a morning person but she must be awake by now. He takes a deep breath and dials her number with shaking hands. An electronic voice informs him that this number isn't in service anymore.

"Bollocks."

All this anticipation for nothing. He's surprised to find that he's more disappointed than relieved.

What to do now? If he still had access to police databases, he would be able to find her in a flash. How do civilians do it? He is— was a detective for God's sake, he should be able to figure it out.

Hardy pushes the red double-door of the Georgian building housing the Broadchurch public library. By the strained smile of the librarian, he can tell she recognizes him. He ignores it and pays the £3 for Internet access. There's Wi-Fi almost everywhere in town, but he needs a proper screen and a proper keyboard, not something better suited for ants. This is the only place with actual computers.

He follows the librarian's wheelchair as she leads him towards the back of the building. Between metal bookshelves, he catches glimpses of teenagers going through piles of comic books and sepia photos of the town.

"Here you go."

She opens the door of an over-heated room filled with old Macs, the ones with clear blue plastic casings. The walls are too white and the neon light is awfully bright, it reminds him of a prison cell. It makes him uneasy, but he didn't come here for the ambiance.

After putting on his glasses, Hardy enters the code he was given. At least, the computer is faster than he'd expected at first sight.

"Here goes nothing" he thinks as he types her name in the Google search box.

6,790,000 results.

Bloody hell.

He looks through a few Twitter and Instagram accounts but discards them rapidly as well as an archeology student's blog, a veterinary and a former nun who recently made the headlines.

He does find something interesting on the _Internet Movie Database_. She, or at least one Hannah Baxter, is listed as a consultant on a 2012 independent movie. It's called _Business suit, Rouge and Lube_ and tells the story of a Parisian call girl. He takes his loyal notepad out of his jacket and writes down the name of the production company. Then he finds their website and phone number. It's a long shot, but worth a try.

He continues looking through the results, hoping for something more immediate. He comes across a very minimalist website for an event design and production company called _Noir & Aphrodite_. According to their mission statement, "_Noir & Aphrodite_ caters to specific interests and lifestyles outside the norm". Hannah is listed as a "client liaison." Is that a new euphemism for whore? He writes down their number as well.

He feels a new surge of nervousness and decides to continue his research before making any calls.

Next, he tries looking up her pseudonym, Belle de Jour. He finds websites dedicated to the French movie of the same name but also for the two books she's published under that alias. He scribbles the publishing company's phone number in his pad.

That's three ways to reach her so far, he's almost optimistic now. Who needs police tools?

He considers searching for escorts in London but is reluctant to do so in a public library. _Nothing to lose_, he reminds himself. He already has a bad reputation in this town anyway and he does know how to erase a browser's internet history.

It occurs to him that he doesn't even know which agency she was with, if she worked for one at all, he'd certainly never gone through them to book an appointment. So he sorts through a dozen or so websites, each promising the best girls in the British capital. The descriptions of girls like merchandize makes his queasy. Hannah was so much more than perky breasts and "a mouth like a hoover."

He keeps glancing nervously at the door, afraid to get caught. When a very explicit image pops up on the screen along with loud moaning sounds, he panics and closes everything. He doesn't dare continue his research down that path; he hadn't found anything interesting anyway.

By the time he leaves the library, it's almost noon and his stomach is demanding to be fed. He turns up his jacket collar against the rain and runs across the street to the Polish bakery. With a cup of Earl Grey and a cheese scone, he sits at one of the bistro tables by the window. The aroma of fresh baked bread is far more enjoyable than the stale smell of the computer room.

After two bites, he makes his first call to the publishing house. Unfortunately, they give him the same number he'd tried to call this morning so that's no use. Clearly, they haven't been in touch with her for a while.

He tries the production company next.

"Eska films."

"Hi, I'm trying to contact someone that worked as a consultant for you in 2012, Hannah Baxter."

"I'll transfer your call to our human resources department. Please, hold the line."

He spends the next 20 minutes feeling like he's in the middle of a dodge ball game, him being the ball, as he's tossed from one employee to another. By the time, someone actually tries to find the information he's looking for, he has scribbled all over the checkered place mat.

Unfortunately, he's told it's against company policy to divulge their employee's personal information. So much for that.

With crossed fingers, he tries the third place, _Noir & Aphrodite_, opting for a different strategy this time.

"Hannah Baxter's office, how may I help you," answers a light masculine voice.

"I'm Detective Inspector Alec Hardy from the Wessex police, and I need to speak with her regarding a private matter."

"I'm sorry sir, but I have instructions to only direct calls to her from Detective Monroe or her solicitor."

Hardy is baffled that his strategy didn't work but even more so to learn that she is somehow involved with the police. He tries to get more information or another way to contact her out of her assistant but he refuses. As infuriating as this is, Alec is glad — if concerned — that she seems to take her security so seriously.

He thought he had good leads but he is nowhere closer to finding her. He rubs his eyes and sags against the back of the chair. Plan B: Go to London. He could find out if she still lives at the same address and if not, check the places she liked to go to. He could try to find this Ben friend she often talked about. Alec looks down at the rest of his tea, swirling in his cup. That whole Detective Monroe thing is bothering him, he should look that up first. He swallows the rest of his beverage, cold by now, and goes back to the library.

What he finds out about Monroe only makes him worried about Hannah. The detective is part of Sapphire, Scotland Yard's sexual crimes unit. Dread settles in the pit of his stomach, like a spike of ice through his guts. If only he'd kept his promise maybe… He runs his hands down his face. Now's not the time to dwell on what ifs.

Desperate times call for desperate measures: Someone in the Sandbrook police owes him a favour.


	5. Scotland, spring 2009

**:: Scotland, Spring 2009 ::**

Being an über-whore — as Ben puts it — is boring. She had been so excited to be recruited by _Diamond International_ and to become a courtesan, but now she found herself alone in a tiny Scottish town with absolutely nothing to do but wait for her client to come back. She laid her forehead against the window, the ancient glass distorted her vision of the trees outside, it made her eyes hurt, like looking through someone else's glasses.

Hannah grunted and pushed herself off the brown quilted couch. Grabbing her raincoat and purse on the way, she pushed opened the heavy oak door with two hands like a petulant child. She refused to stay here any longer like some dog waiting for its master.

She had hoped to find some distraction in town, but as luck would have it, it was a Sunday and almost everything was closed. She walked aimlessly along the narrow cobbled streets and the harbour, hoping to meet a friendly face. It was deserted, the touristic season hadn't started yet. She gave up after half an hour but got lost in a residential neighborhood when she tried to find the trail leading back to the country house she was staying at. At least, it had stopped raining.

Her feet ached, she needed to rest, maybe find a nice spot to read before starting to walk again. The sound of running water nearby caught her ear. She wandered down a small path in the woods behind the houses, the young tree leaves dribbled rainwater on her as she passed.

She found a serpentine river that seemed to take its source all the way up the mountains, at the heart of which was nestled the town of Balloch. She could make out the sound of a waterfall in the distance but had no inclination to see it.

She cast a glance around and spotted a boulder with a deep indentation that would make a perfect seat. She kicked off a few crushed cans of _Strongbow_ and sat down, carefully holding her white jacket under her bum. The rain seemed to have intensified the odours from the soil at her feet and the tall grass surrounding her and something floral she lacked the knowledge to identify. The very fragrance of spring.

If anyone had accused her of loving nature, she would have disagreed vehemently. She was a city girl, through and through. But she couldn't deny that this had a certain charm if only because it matched her mood. Mind you, she was still extremely bored but in a romantic sort of way now.

With her chin in her palm, she thought over the situation she was in. Mitchell Rothman was all praises: "you're exceptional, Belle," "you deserve everything" but in the end he only let her be her exceptional self when it suited him. The fact that she was educated only served to make him feel better about paying for sex. If anything, she'd rather someone who was less nice but more honest.

Unwilling to think any further about Mitchell Rothman's ways and her future as a courtesan, she pulled a book out of her purse and started reading.

She was halfway through the third chapter when she heard footsteps approaching. She looked up from her book and saw a tall, skinny man cursing at trees. Judging by his reaction, he didn't expect to find someone there. He blinked a few times, then said: "You're in my spot."

"How is this _your_ spot?"

With the tip of his trainer, he pointed at something on the back of the rock on which she was sitting. She twisted around, without getting off her seat, and there, in chipped white paint, was written "Alec Hardy."

She turned back to the man, taking in the bags under his eyes, the tight line of his lips and his defensive pose. Not a man to mess with. That didn't stop her.

"Yeah, I'm going to need to see some I.D.," she said with a teasing glint in her eye.

He glared at her but she only smiled back. With a groan, he dug in his back pocket and pulled out his police badge. Hannah made a show of looking at it carefully before giving up her seat.

"D.S. Hardy," she said with a mocking flourish.

He sat down, ignoring the gesture. You'd have to be very thick not to realize this man wanted to be left alone. Nonetheless, she sat on a flat rock one step away from him.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.

"I take it you live here," she said in an attempt to engage in conversation.

She was bored after all, and she'd finally found someone to play with. She prided herself on being able to cheer up any man.

"Lived," he replied without looking at her.

"What brings you back in town? Family?"

"Aye."

"Any special occasion? Anniversary? Birthday?"

"Something like that."

"Care to elaborate?"

"If you're going to stay here at least shut up."

Hannah didn't take kindly to being told to shut up, but in this case she knew she deserved it a little. Still, out of sheer stubbornness, she didn't leave. She opened her book and resumed reading while Alec brooded beside her. It was her favorite author's latest book but she found it hard to focus on the story as her mind kept wandering to memories of the night they'd met and how close she'd been to having a threesome with him and his wife. She still resented Jackie for giving birth that night.

After a while, she sensed that Hardy was watching over her shoulder and she turned to look at him.

"You read this rubbish? Saw the author on Graham Norton the other night, what a wanker."

"How dare you? His first book changed my life."

"Yeah and how's this one?"

"I haven't finished it yet," Hannah replied evasively.

It's true that this novel was rather pretentious and disappointing so far. Alec snorted as if he'd won the argument.

"I haven't finished it yet!" Hannah repeated as she turned around to stare at him directly.

He smirked.

"Is this amusing to you?"

He shrugged and bit the inside of his cheek, holding back a grin.

"Oh, what do you know about literature," she said.

This effectively erased any trace of enjoyment from his features.

"'Cause I'm a copper? What do you know about me?"

"Why don't you start with why you wrote your name on a rock?"

Alec ran a hand through his hair and down along his scruffy cheek.

"You're not from here," he said instead of answering her question, "what the hell you doing in Balloch?"

She told him about the drama that was being film in the castle on the edge of town and being here with the producer whose name he didn't recognize. She commented on how boring his town was compared to London which didn't seem to offend him. He even nodded in agreement.

"Fifteen… When I wrote that," he said, tilting his head towards where his name was written.

He explained that he had to share a room with two of his brothers and that his parents used to fight a lot, so he'd come here to get some peace.

He rose from his seat and walked to the side of the river, Hannah, whose bum had gone numb from sitting on a rock for so long, stood up as well. The clouds had made way to the sun so she removed her jacket, hanging it on a nearby branch, and pulled back the sleeves of her cream sweater.

"It must be nice, having a large family, people to count on," she commented.

He scoffed.

"They're not much help right now."

He picked a few flat pebbles from the bank and threw them across the river, trying to make them bounce on the water.

"Here, that's a good one," Alec said, proffering a sliver of stone.

She hesitated, taken aback by the offer.

"How do you make it skip?" she asked.

He showed her how to throw it, almost horizontally, guiding the movement of her arm. She failed her first attempt but he found another rock for her and this time she succeeded.

They continued throwing rocks in the water while talking — or rather complaining — about their families. He'd always felt like the black sheep in his because he hadn't gone to university like his siblings and parents. His more taciturn disposition also set him apart, but he shared that with his father. Hannah admitted to feeling like an outcast as well.

"You can't be the black sheep when you've only got one sister," Hardy argued.

"There's my extended family too. And my own mother rejects me! She's always going on about how I 'belong to my father' and she doesn't understand what I'm doing with my life…"

She thought back on the previous week when she had moved into the new flat that Mitchell had given her. Her mother had been there to help her pack but her father had been the only one to say he was proud. Granted, he didn't know what this "promotion" really involved but it had been nice to hear him say it all the same.

"I'm too hard on them," Hannah said, reminding herself once again that it was the secret she kept that put a distance between her family and herself, "I think, with family, they don't always know what you really need, yeah? But they do try to do what's right."

Alec stopped searching for rocks and peered at her.

"My mum, she always says— said…"

He sniffed and looked away.

"What?"

"Erm," he cleared his throat, "she'd say: 'God has chosen this family for you, so you do right by it'."

Then came a great silence and he stared into the distance. He clenched his jaw and deep dimples appeared on his cheeks.

For the first time, he didn't seem so grumpy. He had kind eyes in a sea of freckles behind a mask of bristles. But he looked sad and it made her heart ache for him so she did the only thing she knew to comfort men: She pushed up on her toes and kissed his cheek. He turned his head and she kissed him again, on the lips this time but he barely responded.

When she backed off, he looked shocked, eyes wide, mouth gaping. Hannah didn't flinch, didn't apologize, owning up to her actions. He scrutinized her as if weighing the pros and cons and she hoped he would kiss her back.

When his eyes flicked to her mouth and he licked his lips, she knew he would.

He leaned forward and kissed her, cautiously at first, a few short pecks. She reciprocated, pressing forward, cupping his cheek, encouraging him. They discovered each other's taste, firm lips moving in sync. He turned his whole body around and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer as her lips parted in invitation. He swiped his tongue gently against her lower lip before taking her mouth more boldly, one hand carding through her hair to hold her head. It was the closest thing to being swept off her feet she'd ever experienced and it was amazing.

"Erm, well, that was… thank you?" Alec said.

"My pleasure."

He looked as if he was chewing the inside of his cheeks to hold back a smile, so she kissed him again until she felt him chuckle against her lips.

"You're a nutter," he said.

"But a cute one."

He nodded, laughing lines appearing at the corner on his eyes.

"That's the worst kind."

He ran the back of his fingers along her jaw, and if her heart had been aching for him just a few minutes ago it was now swelling with happiness. He kissed her again or she did, it didn't matter at this point. In her mind, she was already evaluating the best way to shag in this wood.

Church bells chimed and Hardy broke the kiss to look down at his watch.

"Bollocks. Gotta go back to Dad," Alec said and Hannah pouted, "it's very important."

"It must be… alright, go, go."

She playfully pushed him, and he caught her hands. He held them over his chest and kissed her one last time.

"See ya around," he said.

"Laters."

And so it began.


	6. London, April 2011

**:: London, April 2011 ::**

Virginia gold tobacco. Hannah's brand. Sometimes, he thought he could recognize the smell of it in a crowd, but it was only his mind playing tricks on him. It was the kind of insignificant details about her that his mind registered effortlessly like her shoe size (6) or the first album she bought with her own money (No Doubt's _Tragic Kingdom_). Little details that would certainly come back to haunt him when this affair would inevitably come to an end.

He took the cigarette from her fingers and brought it to his own mouth.

"Don't tell anyone."

She chuckled and rested her head on his shoulder.

The smoke he exhaled disappeared in the thick morning fog. The sky was still dark blue, fading to lavender around the edges, like a watercolor painting.

In sweaters and underwear, they stood barefoot on the cool, damp concrete of her balcony. They wouldn't stay out long. London was waking up, ready to go about its day, not caring in the least about them.

They laughed at a drunken rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody coming from the street below, and he took another drag. The tip of the cigarette sizzled brightly, a poor substitute for the stars that never shined in the city sky.

"Quit 13 years ago, you're a bad influence on me."

"I know."

She tilted her head and kissed his jaw before taking her cigarette back.

Thirteen years ago, Liz had told him she was pregnant only a month after they'd started dating. They'd married quickly— mostly for their parents' sake— and he'd promised himself that he would be the best husband and the best father there could be. He'd promised himself that their marriage wouldn't be like his parents', filled with bitterness and bickering.

Up until he met Hannah, he'd kept that promise. But the problem with someone who always did what was right was that 1) other people find it boring and annoying, and 2) it was fake. It could only last for so long.

He'd been exemplary, but it was only a matter of time before he found his weakness. He never expected it to be a woman. If anything, he thought it would be alcohol like his father (a Hemingway scholar whose admiration bordered on self-destruction). For that reason, in thirteen years, he'd barely drank any alcohol, only on special occasions which now included just being in Hannah's company. And that was the thing about her, he could let go, really be himself. She already knew his most sinful secret and others as well, and she liked him anyway.

That was the explanation he'd come to after two years, but the truth was that he could hardly explain the feelings that rose in him as he ran his hand under her sweater, fingers playing along her spine. He nuzzled her hair, in the morning he could hardly tell their scents apart. "Mine" his mind shouted as she burrowed further into his arms. He knew it was far from the truth but he felt that way nonetheless. Feeling a lump in his throat, he swallowed thickly and held her closer.

"Last day of training," he said not long after the first orange ray had pierced the sky.

"You must be glad it's over. No more classes with— oh, what's his name? The one that annoys you?"

"Which one?" he asked, not even trying to hide the contempt he felt for the teachers he's had to endure.

Hannah snorted.

"Right. Will you get promoted right away?"

"Aye, DI Patel retires next week, and I take his place … But no, I'm not glad it's over."

"Why not?"

She had to know why. He wouldn't have any excuse to come to London on his own after this week. At least, not on such a regular basis.

"I'll miss you," Hannah said, resting her head on his chest.

Would she? Sometimes he wondered how genuine she was with him. He paid her after all. Maybe she only said what she thought he wanted to hear. He hated that doubt that felt like a barrier between them, between what he had and what he really wanted.

"I wish I didn't have to pay you," he said in a clumsy attempt to explain what their encounters meant to him.

"Tightwad." She slapped his chest playfully.

"No, I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

She fiddled with the neck of his black sweater and he kissed the top of her head, glad they were on the same wavelength.

"Has it occurred to you that you only pay for one hour?" she added.

He dropped his arms abruptly and walked back in the flat. Hannah followed.

"What is it?" she asked with a hint of exasperation in her voice.

She leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.

"I'm trying to say that I wish our —," he gestured back and forth between them, "that this was less… transactional and your solution is that I pay more. I would pay for you 24/7 if I could."

"No, you wouldn't," she replied with indignation.

"Wha'?"

Hannah looked down, toying with the zip of her hoodie.

"The routine, doing normal stuff with me, you wouldn't like that."

"Well, we'll never know, will we?" he replied angrily.

He was seething. How had his attempt at opening up about his feelings turned into an argument?

He went into the kitchen and set to making coffee with a long sigh. Hannah came in after a while..

"I'm just saying that when you come here, it's easy, it's a fantasy, an escape from your daily life."

"Oh, aye right, I was really living the dream when I put up shelves in your bathroom."

"You offered!"

"Or when we— we went shopping for you nephew."

"If you didn't want to come— "

"I did! That's my point."

Hardy grunted and dropped the scoop of coffee back in the metal tin and pushed it away with unnecessary force.

He didn't know if he was angrier at her or at himself. His own incapacity to express his feelings was infuriating. There were words, of course, that came to his mind, but they were too big, too important, too scary to be pronounced right now. Especially now. He'd thought they were on the same wavelength, that this also meant more to her, but now he felt like a fool.

Hannah hopped up on the counter near him.

"Hardy," she said carefully, waiting until he would look at her to continue, "you only pay for one hour, but you've never stayed just one hour. You've even been spending the night here since January."

He stopped frowning. She nudged his hip with her toes and it encouraged him to take the few steps separating them until their knees touched. Gently, she ran a hand through his hair.

"This is not transactional."

A weight, a doubt, lifted off his chest. He kissed her and she smiled at him, but it was short lived.

"Still, what's the point of saying all that? You're married and I'm a prostitute. I might never see you again."

He caught her hand as she was drawing it back.

"Don't say that."

"Be real, Hardy, and stop pretending you're a romantic because you feel guilty," she said in a frail voice.

But he knew better than to believe what she was saying. He knew that look on her face, those evasive eyes and the way she worried her bottom lip. And she knew him better than that too. He never said things he didn't mean, to the point where he could be dreadfully honest.

He ran his thumb over the tattoo on her wrist.

"I love being with you, that's all," he said.

It was close enough to what he really wanted to say to make his head spin. She looked down at their hands and entwined their fingers.

"I love being with you too."

She opened her legs and he stepped in, bodies meeting as their lips did.

She crossed her wrists over the nape of his neck.

"So, last day, uh? Do you think you'll learn anything new?" Hardy quirked an eyebrow at her question. "I was just thinking— since I'm a bad influence on you and all— maybe I could persuade you to cut class, spend the day with me."

He hesitated, it went against his professionalism but she smiled, tucking her chin in her shoulder and biting her bottom lip. He could rarely resist that look.

"What about your clients?"

"I'll cancel," she replied without any hesitation.

She twirled a strand of hair on the nape of his neck with her index finger, and he dipped his head to kiss her jaw.

"And what would we do?" he asked against her skin.

She shrugged and he felt it more than saw it.

"We could get in your car and drive, anywhere, east maybe, until we reach the sea."

She spoke in a dreamy voice as she ran her fingers over his scalp the way that made his spine tingle. Her ankles had crossed behind his legs and his arms were wrapped tightly around her waist, nose still buried in the crook of her neck.

"What if we leave and I never want to come back?"

* * *

><p>He took the A12 exit on a whim, and they drove on, pretending they were leaving it all behind.<p>

She'd said that it was like a fantasy when he came to her. Now he knew it was a shared one. They'd fooled themselves, reassured by the protocol of exchanging money, by the time limit, by the arbitrary rules they made up. Rules they broke and built back up a little further each time to accommodate their ever growing feelings for one another. Rationalizing, compartmentalizing, denying, suppressing. But it was all there, blooming in their chests, a vine growing over their rib cages, every meeting was sunshine and fresh water. And they carried on with the pretense of casual encounters and friendship even as their hearts choked under the weight of what they wanted but couldn't have.

They took this fantasy as far as the land would go.

They reached Aldeburgh in two and a half hours, each fork on the road had been a throw of dice.

The waves were as grey as the sky above, fog and sea foam blurred the line between the two. They walked out of the car and across the street to the shore. Only the noise of gravel rolling with each ebb and flow, filled the quiet beach. Even as the salty wind whipped their faces, they stood, hand in hand, looking out at the horizon.

"What's on the other side?" she asked after a while.

He shrugged. He didn't even know if this was considered the Channel or the North Sea.

"The Netherlands, maybe… I've never been there," she added.

She only had to ask, it wouldn't take much to convince him. He remembered now seeing indications for ferries to The Hague along the road, they could—but he stopped right there, he'd told his daughter they'd go to the cinema tomorrow afternoon, that's the one rule he would never break.

He buttoned up his trench coat, pulling his collar up around his neck, and she zipped her navy sweater all the way up to her nose. They walked arm in arm by rows of pastel beach huts and between boats, afloat no more at low tide. The pebbles crunched under their shoes and seagulls squawked over their heads and they talked about the good times they'd had. He started thinking that spending the day together would only make their impending separation worse. But he couldn't really find it in himself to regret spending more time with her, not when she smiled at him the way she just had.

"So, is this your first time cutting class?" Hannah asked.

Alec snorted.

"Naw, used to do it all the time."

"Really?"

There was still so much they had to learn about each other.

"I was only serious about school once I'd decided what I wanted to do with my life, and that was just at the Police College, before that… I only did what I had to, to get by."

"And what would you do when you cut school? Hang out with friends?"

"I didn't have many friends, we'd just moved to Balloch when I started secondary school, I was so set on going back to Glasgow, I couldn't be arsed to get to know anyone."

Hannah chuckled at that.

He told her about a used-books store ran by an Irish widow with hair like a witch. She had dozens of shoe boxes filled with old mystery novels with salacious illustrations on the cover. He'd buy one for 50P, 75P with a bag of pop rock candies. When he got older, he'd bum a cigarette off someone on the street instead of buying sweets. He'd go to that spot where they'd first met, the boulder by the river on which he'd written his name.

"I had to read them in one go or dad would throw them away."

"Why?"

"They're a waste of words, and ink and paper," Alec said, imitating his father's deep voice and shaking finger.

Mr. Hardy had studied and taught literature all his career, he couldn't let his youngest son skip school to read trash when he could have been learning and reading classics.

"I read Bukowski, Orwell, the lot of them after, but, I dunno, those novels with their detectives and femmes fatales and … well, it's kind of like my life with you."

Men in trench coats rescuing scantily clad damsels in distress, catching bad guys and kissing the girl.

He tugged Hannah closer and kissed her hair. But then he shook his head and stopped walking, moving to face Hannah who looked at him quizzically. He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her to him, as his fingers slid through her hair until he was cradling the back of her head and then he kissed her properly. The way you kiss someone who walked out of your fantasies. Reverently. Zealously. As he savored her lips, he dipped her backwards. It's how the heroes in his books always did it.

When they separated, he noted with some satisfaction that Hannah's eyes were glazed over and her cheeks flushed. He'd kissed her speechless, that was a first.

They resumed walking along the shore, and he asked her about her own class-skipping adventures.

"My best-mate and I, we'd sneak out of the school and into the cinema and make-out in the back row."

"So, more than just a mate?"

Hannah shrugged.

"I don't know for her, although she _was_ a bit… butch, now that I think about it."

This friendship had been an exception, most of her best friends had been boys. As a result, she'd never hung out with a large group of mates. She preferred to have a select few which also suited her need for time by herself. This was a constant in her life.

They exchanged more anecdotes from their high-school days, hungry for every tidbit of information about the other. The smell of fish grew stronger as they approached the harbour where fishermen were working. They left the shore, following the High Street to the town center. They walked around the seafood restaurants, heritage buildings and amber jewelry stores in less than half an hour. Hardy looked down at his watch, it was lunchtime, but the full English breakfast they'd shared in a truck stop on the way was still resting heavily in his stomach. They agreed to drive to another town.

As they walked, Hardy calculated how long it would take to go to another city, eat a late lunch, go back to London and then Sandbrook. He wouldn't make it back home on time unless their next stop was on the way back. Not much of a road trip and definitely too short. He squeezed Hannah's hand and she squeezed back. Not yet.

"I could call home," he said, thinking out loud, "I could say that I won't come back right away… that I'll go out to a pub with my colleagues, celebrate the end of training."

He knew his wife would advise him not to take the wheel after drinking, to sleep in London again if he must. He looked at Hannah for approbation, she nodded.

"Sounds plausible."

He'd never lied to his wife so blatantly, his voice was unsteady, his palms sweaty. She rarely asked about his stay in London and when she did, he talked about the workshops and classmates. It was still dishonest but in a sort of roundabout way.

As predicted, she advised him to stay one more night in the city, adding that Radcliffe would come over to their house for coffee and a game of Scrabble, she wouldn't miss her husband. Somehow that made him feel better. He asked to speak to Julia, he wanted her to know that even if he wasn't back home tonight, he'd leave early to catch that movie as planned. The cinema was in a shopping center, he'd buy her something nice, too, and maybe take her to her favorite restaurant. Overcompensation.

"We have another night," he confirmed to Hannah.

Neither of them dared express joy at the prospect. Not so soon after the lie.

"I could use another coffee," Hannah said pointing her chin towards a Starbucks.

They'd barely slept that night, and now that the thrill of driving away was wearing off as well as the effects of the coffee they'd drank on the road, they were yawning deeply. Hannah was blinking heavily as if she was about to fall asleep on the spot.

"We could take a kip in the car," he suggested.

"Sounds good."

He moved the car to the far end of the parking lot and took the tartan blanket out of the trunk. Opening the back door, he contemplated the small space and his own tall frame with a worried look. It would be wiser to recline the front seats but cuddling was more important than comfort.

"I'll go in first and then you come in through the other door with the blanket, alright?"

He folded his jacket into a makeshift pillow and then proceeded to lie down on the backseat after toeing off his shoes. He bent one leg and the other was sprawled diagonally across the floorboard. He wiggled a bit and finally was a comfortable as he could be.

"That's quite the vulnerable position you're in," Hannah commented, looking down at his spread legs.

"Oi, mind those kneecaps."

Giggling, Hannah settled carefully between his legs, trying not to poke him in the ribs with her elbow. She arranged the blanket as best as she could to cover them both and rested her head on his chest, ear to his heart.

"I wanted to do this, when I drove you from Sandbrook back to London."

"Do what?""

"Keep driving, past London, to the sea."

"Really? Why?"

He shrugged and stifled a yawn.

"Dunno, it's something that sort of pops up in my mind all the time, pack my things and go. Only Julia keeps me in Sandbrook," he explained as his hand slipped under the hem of her shirt.

Hannah traced swirly patterns with the tip of her fingers over his chest as she mulled over what he'd just said.

"It's a good thing you didn't, keep driving I mean. I wouldn't have liked waking up in a strange town with a strange man."

"But you felt safe with me. You wanted me to stay with you," he pointed out.

"Strange men come to my apartment all the time."

That was a bit of a downer, he liked to think that they'd had a special connection from the beginning. He'd have said something but his eyelids were very heavy and Hannah had grown silent. He thought she'd fallen asleep until she said:

"You're right, though, I trusted you. It happened really fast, I liked you the first time we met, I just did."

"It's my Scottish charm."

She chuckled.

"I think it's when you gave me that flat rock to throw in the river with you, remember?"

"Aye."

"I knew you were nice despite everything. And then… you never judged me, I know you're not entirely okay with what I do, but you see me as I am and not my job."

His main concern with her job was that she might find herself in a dangerous situation and get hurt. He was worried about other men more than he was jealous. But he didn't tell her that.

He stroke her hair softly and felt her warm breath through his shirt when she sighed contentedly.

"I love being with you," she said.

And this was it, the moment he would remember her by.

When Hannah woke up, she was groggy and uncomfortable. They'd cracked opened a window before falling asleep and cold air had slipped in, but the glass was covered with condensation. Her skin was clammy where their bodies touched but freezing at the tips. She kicked the blanket off but pressed her toes to Alec's leg, and she turned her head to hide her nose where his shirt was opened. He grunted in his sleep and closed his arms around her. She tried to slip her cold hands under Alec's shirt to warm them but it was tucked in his trousers.

"You undressing me?" he mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Yeah, any objections?"

He opened an eye when she pressed a kiss to his neck. His skin was salty from their earlier walk on the beach but his own scent, fresh and green, like cedar and pine trees, lay underneath. She managed to untuck his shirt and he winced when she touched him with her cold hands. Instead of asking her to withdraw them, he rubbed them through his shirt with his own hands.

"You know, my bum's cold too," she said with a coy smile.

"Can't have that."

He pulled the blanket higher on her shoulders before slipping his arms under and resting his hands, wide and warm, on her rear end, lightly squeezing the cushy flesh.

She budged up as much as she could to kiss him on the lips, it was a lazy, tender kiss. She explored his chest, feeling every familiar ridge and hollow, every bit of smooth skin and coarse hair, under her fingertips. He cupped her bum more firmly and hiked her up to deepen the kiss. She squeaked in surprise, making him laugh, thick and sweet like honey.

She kissed him again, parting her lips in invitation, and their tongues met eagerly. And when one of his hand moved up and under her sweater, she felt a familiar throb between her legs. She canted her hips with a frustrated groan at the minimal relief it brought her.

He moved his hand up across the small of her back and over the curve of her waist then to her front. He unclasped her bra, irritated by its very existence, and groaned at the direct contact with her warm, responsive skin.

"Maybe we should find somewhere else," he suggested weakly between two hungry kisses to her neck.

But Hannah was already kneeling back and unfastening her jeans. He followed her example, and they both shimmied out of their pants and underwear as best as they could in the tight space, keeping their socks and tops on out of necessity.

She settled back on top of him with the blanket. She started slowly, teasingly. Then guided him in her, throwing her head back with a long moan. This would be quick and dirty.

They moved frantically against one another, groaning, gripping, panting. The scent of sex filled the car and the condensation on the windows turned liquid. He licked a line of sweat along her neck when she leaned forward on one arm. She slipped a hand where they were joined. He took over for her, thrusting up as much as he could and pulling her hips to meet his with a strong grip.

"Fuck, that's good," she moaned as her head fell to his chest, hair spilling over his throat with a whiff of cherry blossom.

The lustful noise of skin meeting skin echoed in the car. Hannah bit through his shirt, whimpering. She felt her orgasm rush through her like a train, wracking her senses and leaving her boneless. Hardy clutched the back of her sweater, holding her close, as he bucked up one, two, three more times before muffling a shout of release in her hair.

They lay half-naked and sated, listening to their breaths and heartbeats. Her sluggish limbs tingled pleasantly, and Hardy's face was adorned with a dopey smile, and she mentally ticked "backseat sex" off her list

When her ability to think came back, she realized they'd forgotten to use protection. It wasn't catastrophic, she did use other means of contraception, but she was surprised to find out she could still get caught up in the heat of the moment.

They rested until they were too uncomfortable. Trying to look as presentable as possible, they put their clothes back on and ventilated the car while they stretched. They stopped at a Starbucks for caffeine and washrooms, then hit the road. Just before reaching the highway, Hannah flipped a coin to decide which way to go: south.

With The Clash playing on the stereo, he drove on until their stomachs rumbled. They stopped for oysters on the Felixstowe pier, earning themselves complimentary glasses of wine by pretending it was their anniversary. Then they continued southward, stopping wherever they wanted because they liked the name of the town or because they fancied an ice cream.

At the end of the day, he stopped in a car park on the edge of London, and they sat on the hood, in the violet dusk, making plans for hypothetical future meetings. Keeping up the pretense, fueling the fantasy.

And at night when they couldn't sleep because their stomachs were twisted into knots and their throats were too tight, they made promises they couldn't keep.


	7. Sandbrook, August 2013

**:: Sandbrook, July 2013 ::**

Time to cash in a favor. Alec's former partner, DS Radcliffe, had reluctantly agreed to meet him at the Costa coffee in downtown Sandbrook. Hardy didn't even bothered with the usual pleasantries and jumped straight into asking his help to find Hannah. Since his research at the public library and subsequent phone calls had yielded very little results except for one alarming information, he desperately needed Radcliffe's access to the police database. The DS would be able to tell him what happened to her or at least find a way to contact her.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea," Radcliffe says, running a hand through his ever-tousled blond hair.

"Did you hear me ask for your opinion?" Hardy replied coldly.

The DS reclines in the red leather armchair, arms crossed over his chest.

"You owe me," Alec continues, "you were my mate and you ratted me out to Liz, and then you slept with her—"

"Oh bollocks! Don't you dare make this my fault, Alec!"

"I'm not. It's my fault." Hardy says in a level voice. "Which is why I took the blame when you left crucial evidence in the parking lot of a motel and it got nicked."

Inside, his blood is boiling at the memory of the murder case falling apart at the trial because of that stolen pendant, but he tries to remain calm on the outside. He really needs his help. Radcliffe clenches his jaw and fists, he'd never suffered any consequences for that disastrous mistake.

"Fuck, man, you can't… This whole mess started because of her."

Hardy stares at him and takes a sip of water to steady his nerves.

"Thing is, I can't just look someone up, you know that, I need authorizations and the chief super will ask why…" he trails off in a whiny voice, "Why don't you do it yourself?"

The question he was waiting for, the last blow to convince Radcliffe, if guilting him into it doesn't work. _Nothing to lose_, Hardy reminds himself. He takes a deep breath and swallows his pride.

"I'm dying."

Radcliffe blanches, mouth widening, at a loss for words, but his surprise soon turns to distrust.

"You're messing with me, you are."

"Arrhythmia, for the last 18 months or so. I'm invalided out 'til I get a pacemaker… I might not survive the operation," he leans forward, staring straight into Radcliffe' blue eyes, "I just want to see her one last time before."

Radcliffe is defeated and he knows it.

"I'll see what I can do."

Hardy leaves the coffee house filled with renewed confidence from having some control back over his life. He decides to drive to the local high school; there's another person he really needs to see before going under the knife.


	8. London, Fall 2009

**:: Part 8: London, autumn 2009 ::**

In retrospect, she should have known that he was married. There had been signs all along. He was hot and cold, flirting and touching one second, backing off the next. He would skim over certain subjects or give evasive answers. She had put it down to shyness. She imagined he had a girlfriend, nothing serious, nothing permanent. She wanted to believe he was a good man and available and he let her.

* * *

><p>Hardy had been right, the murder she'd witnessed at Rupert Cowell's mansion was quickly prosecuted. The trial was held in London, and she had to appear only once in court. It was barely talked about in the media, she suspected it had something to do with the billionaire's influence.<p>

Despite being glad that it was over and that none of her secrets had been revealed, she couldn't help but being disappointed at not meeting Alec again. Which didn't mean they hadn't been in touch during that time.

He'd sent her a text at 4am after driving her back to London, he wanted to make sure was alright. His thoughtfulness had touched her. She'd sent him a proper e-mail the next day to say thank you and ask about the proceedings. Despite the fact that he wasn't on the case, he did call a few times just to make sure his colleague had done his job properly. Each exchange was laced with flirtatious undertones and they got to know each other better in the process.

That's why she couldn't hold back a grin when he called and asked if they could meet up in London. He was coming to attend a series of workshops, at the end of which he would be promoted to a DI position. Every three weeks for 18 months, he would be in the city.

His hotel was near Queensway station and she knew a pub nearby, the Anglesea Arms, a cozy place in a back street near the Swedish embassy. They met at the tube station, although she got there by cab. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, he was more handsome than she remembered. How could she have forgotten about the freckles that gave him a boyish charm? Or the broadness of his shoulders despite his lanky frame?

She greeted him like an old friend with light pecks on his cheeks.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Spectacular."

They walked the few blocks to the pub. Her outfit looked sexy but effortlessly so: a simple red jersey dress that showed a lot of leg. She knew her best assets. Unfortunately, it didn't work too well with the weather and she had to hold it down, along with her jacket, against the strong October wind. As they cut through Hyde Park, orange and yellow leaves swirled around them, and she laughed as she pulled one out of Hardy's messy hair.

The place was packed, some sort of Swedish embassy happy hour judging by the foreign language she could hear and the unusual amount of blond haired men. On the big screens, a football match with Sweden opposing Germany was presented. The second half was almost over and Sweden was losing, so she knew that the crowd would thin out soon.

She tried to fix her windswept hair as best as she could, while Hardy elbowed their way through the mass. When they reached the bar, the Swedish team scored and they were immediately offered shooters of Akvavit. She swallowed hers easily, but Hardy almost spit it back. That didn't stop him from accepting a second one, out of ego most likely, and from thumping the empty glass down on the bar with a wide grin.

"This night is off to a good start," she declared.

Once the cheering had died down, they ordered pints of lager.

"So, how do you like being in the big city," she asked, nudging his shoulder with hers, while they waited for their drinks.

"Love it! Makes me miss Glasgow," he answered.

"Glasgow? I thought you were a small-town man."

They carried their pints to the only table left and chucked their coats, before he explained that he'd actually grown up in the Scottish metropolis. The bar was noisy, not the best for conversation but certainly the best to get intimate since they had lean very close to understand what the other was saying.

"But when we met in Balloch, you talked like you used to live there."

His family had relocated to the small town when he was a teenager and his father had just retired. She had to ask him several questions, but eventually she got the whole story out of him. He'd lived only a few years there, moving back to Glasgow as soon as he could. He'd worked for three years, making ends meet with small menial jobs, before deciding to become a detective. Even when he had to go to Kincardine to attend the police college, he would go back to the city whenever he could. His eyes lit up as he spoke of the Glaswegians who, like their city, were both rude and hospitable. He made an impulsive promise to take her there when she admitted that she'd never been to that city.

There was more talk of the advantages of big cities, the energy, the anonymity.

"What about Sandbrook, then?" Hannah asked.

"Found a job there and stayed." He averted her eyes and gulped down the rest of his beer. "So, how d'you get into prostitution?"

Hannah choked on her sip of beer.

"Christ, you certainly know how to cut to the chase."

Hardy chuckled.

"I was under the impression that you appreciate the fine art of straightforwardness."

He smiled a crooked smile and she wondered if he could already be drunk.

"A fine art, uh? I suppose I do…" She placed her hand on his thigh under the table. "So, shall we go back to yours or mine?"

Hardy flushed and babbled and pulled on his collar.

"It's alright," Hannah said, "let's have another drink first, yeah?"

"Aye, my round," he replied too quickly, swiftly rising from his chair.

He headed for the bar with long strides.

Well, he hadn't downright rejected her, so she hadn't entirely screwed up. He'd been nothing but a gentleman ever since they'd met, maybe he needed to woo her a little more before moving on to other activities.

When he came back to the table with two pints of _Magner's_, he seemed to have gotten his cool back. He'd unbuttoned the top of his shirt and rolled back his sleeves, and he was definitely sitting closer. Maybe it was because, as she'd predicted, the crowd had thinned out and they had more privacy. Or maybe he was a lightweight, and the leering was purely the result of his alcohol intake. But whatever the reason, he seemed more at ease and she quite enjoyed this sort of courtship she never got with clients.

She told him the story of how she'd gotten into the business of sex. Although one might expect her to tell this story in lecherous details, she never overplayed it. This was important to her. A discussion followed over whose job was most essential to maintain society's order. Their arguments were getting more and more ridiculous as they were getting tipsier. She was clearly wining the debate and loved riling up Hardy.

"You know I could arrest you," Alec declared in an effort to gain the upper hand.

"I'm not opposed to handcuffs," she replied with a leer.

"I won't, don't worry."

"You're not very good at this, are you?"

"At what?"

"Flirting."

"Oh, is that what we're doing?" he ran a hand over the back of his head, and there was that crooked smile again.

She felt a tentative hand on her knee, and as the cider in his glass went down, his hand on her leg went up. His speech became slurred and his eyes glazed over. Her own head swam. She touched his shoulder and neck, and tossed her hair and licked her lips. When he reached the hem of her dress, she held his gaze and parted her legs. Hardy swallowed thickly and the tip of his fingers pressed into her flesh. His hand moved just under her clothes, the rough pad of his thumb rubbing circles on her inner thigh. It sent a delightful shiver down her spine, making her pulse thud between her legs.

"Hannah?"

"Yes?"

Some drunk fell on Hardy. He got back on his feet with some difficulty and by the time he was gone, Hardy's hand had left Hannah's skin. She could tell by the deflated look on his face that he'd changed his mind about whatever he was going to ask her.

"I think it's time I get back to my hotel," he said.

Outside, the wind had died down, and the city seemed to have become still. The air was fresh but not cold, and laced with that peculiar autumnal fragrance of dead leaves and rain.

"Will you take a cab?" he asked.

"I feel like walking."

Hardy looked around them, then up at the night sky to the moon as yellow as in a cartoon.

"You live nearby?" he asked.

"No."

"Then walk with me, take a cab from the hotel."

Any other man, she would have thought it was a disguised invitation for sex, but with Hardy, she couldn't be certain. Whatever was going to happen when they reached his hotel, the idea of walking with him through Hyde Park in this lovely night was attractive enough by itself.

She pulled a scarf from her purse as they walked out of the back street and onto South Kensington, crossing the road to the park. The leaves were crisps under their feet and nocturnal birds cooed although they remained invisible in the shadows of the foliage.

He told her about someone who was arrested this week and who kept pulling down his pants in the precinct, shouting obscenities at the constables as he showed them his arse.

"They confiscated his jeans and pants entirely, he wasn't so confident after that."

He giggled drunkenly and lost his balance, almost knocking her over.

"You're plastered!"

"Am no!"

"Yes you are, you can't even walk straight."

"Pfff, I can."

He attempted to demonstrate his ability, holding his arms up on each side, carefully putting one foot in front of the other. He staggered over a small rock and Hannah burst out laughing.

"Okay, maybe a wee bit."

"What kind of Scot are you? You had two pints! It's because you're so skinny."

She poked him in the ribs and he caught her hands. He held them between his palms and shook his head.

"What?"

He shrugged.

"Oh, go on, tell me," she said with a smile, looping her arm through his.

"It's just— argh never mind."

She rested her chin on his shoulder and fluttered her eyelashes. He rolled his eyes.

"I'm glad we could meet tonight."

She suspected that it wasn't exactly what was on his mind but decided not to push it.

"Me too," she replied.

He did that thing again, that little smirk with a shake of his head.

"You don't believe me," she realized.

"Not you... the whole situation is unbelievable."

"Maybe I am a figment of your imagination after all," she teased him.

"Pinch me."

"I have something better."

She leaned towards him with puckered lips but his reflexes were sluggish and the kiss landed on the corner of his mouth.

Hardy stopped walking to take a better look at her. Oh, he had a way of looking at her, like she was the most brilliant thing he'd never seen. It made her feel naked, her soul bare, and when he caressed her jaw like it was made of crystal, her rib cage felt too small, swelling heart constricting her lungs. She turned away, suddenly overwhelmed.

They resumed walking, fairy lights woven in the trees guided their way. Everyone they met seemed to be a in a hurry, but they walked slowly and she wished they had a longer distance to go. She couldn't remember the last time she'd just held hands with someone. A part of her warned her about liking this too much. A cop, living in another city. But she could feel its potential, they'd been planting seeds this spring now was Harvest season. He'd come to London and would come again, every three weeks for over a year. No commitments, no pressure. And there were no secrets, he knew about her job. She couldn't dream of a better situation.

They reached the other side of the park, they could see the tube station across the road and his hotel's neon sign, and they both stopped walking, reluctant to go on. But the light turned green. She held his hand through the hordes of Londoners.

He pushed opened the glass doors and they came to a halt in the lobby.

"So…"

"Yeah…"

They faced each other, still holding hands.

"Would you like to, erm, maybe, have a last drink, with me?" he asked, indicating the hotel bar with his chin.

"Sure."

The place was practically empty and they sat at the far end of the counter. A bartender in white shirt and bowtie brought them a glass of whiskey. The liquor coursed through her veins, warming her all over. She removed one shoe and slipped her toes under the hem of Alec's trousers.

"You're really something, you know that?" he said.

She continued rubbing his calf and looked at him through her thick eyelashes. He studied his glass.

"What's stopping you?"

He looked at her, all of her, slowly disrobing her with dark, hungry eyes.

"I'm not sure anymore," he finally answered.

"Let's go upstairs," she whispered in his ear.

He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and that's when she saw the picture: Hardy with a woman and a girl, a family portrait complete with a bloody dog and one of those ugly backgrounds used by cheap photography studios. She sobered up instantly, tears pricked her eyes but it's anger that came out.

"You're married."

Hardy grimaced.

"Why aren't you wearing a ring?"

"Lost it."

"How? Never mind that... What the fuck did you think was going to happen here?"

"Dunno! There was no big plan just..."

He reached for her face but she batted his hand away.

"Is it because I'm a prostitute? You thought—"

"No!… I was in London and you're interesting, that's it."

"Well, I don't get involved with married men, not like that. If you want to see me again, you'll have to pay."

Even as she said the words, she didn't know if they were meant to keep him away or to give him a chance to meet her again.


	9. Broadchurch, August 2013 pt3

**:: Broadchurch, August 2010 ::**

It had been ages since Alec had slept past 8 am— without being in a hospital and sedated, that is. He would have slept all day too, better dream than contemplate the emptiness of his day. Thankfully, his phone rings, it's Radcliffe.

"Tell me you have some good news."

"I've got a phone number for you," Radcliffe answers coldly.

Hardy gets off the bed so quickly, it makes his head spin and a sharp pain radiates through his chest. He closes his eyes and tries to hold back a groan.

"Hardy?"

"I'm fine, just— just give me the number," he says, looking around for a pen and paper.

"Before anything, I have to tell you something. She's— well there's no easy way to say this— she's a prostitute, Alec."

"Just gimme the number," Alec replies impatiently.

He finds a pen and a piece of paper on the desk and writes down the number Radcliffe dictates. He asks the DS about the case file in which he's found this contact information.

"I'm breaking the law enough as it is just giving you her number."

"For fuck's sake, I'm still a police officer, I'm just medical'd out."

"I'm not getting in trouble for you."

"Tell me if there's a detective Monroe involved."

"Yeah… Look, I've told Liz about your research and we both agree that, well, it would be better if you didn't find her, think about your daughter. Do you really want to have that kind of person in your life?"

He can feel the vein in his neck throb as anger surges through him.

"You don't know anything."

He hangs up before losing his temper and shouts a string of curses at the empty room. The nerve of this man.

His eyes land on the piece of paper with Hannah's number on it. He'd better calm down before calling.


	10. Sandbrook, June 2011

**:: Sandbrook, June 2011 ::**

Alec was now officially a DI, he had bigger responsibilities, a bigger office and a bigger salary but no one to spend it on. Indeed, he hadn't seen Hannah since his last day of training, back in April, when they'd driven out to the sea.

With his new job, a visit from several family members and his daughter's violin competitions, he hadn't being able to keep in touch with her as much as he wanted.

Almost all communication between them had happened via texts at odd hours of the night. These glimpses of her had fueled his yearning rather than soothe it. He didn't know which wallpaper she'd chosen for her bedroom or if Carlos from the greek food place still insisted on calling her Hannah-baklava. He couldn't tell if she'd really laughed at his lame joke and couldn't smell her new perfume. These were not important things, but they were things he would know if they were still seeing each other regularly.

He missed her terribly, he'd slip into daydreams at all hours of the day, snapping out of it with reluctance. And when there was only place for work on his mind, she haunted his dreams. They were so life like, he woke up hard and disappointed. Once or twice, he came in his fist, with the phone to his ear and her breathy voice at the other end of the line. It wasn't enough.

Now he had an opportunity to go to London. Ironically, his wife had been the one to suggest that he should visit his mates in the capital. According to her, he seemed happier when he had a regular night off away from home. Or maybe she wanted to get rid of him.

He left the police station and crossed a few streets to get to a park where he sometimes went to eat his lunch— that is, back when he actually had time to leave his office during the lunch break. In this case, he was going there to make a call away from prying ears. He sat on a bench, behind a weeping willow, and dialed her phone number with a certain giddiness as he looked forward to hearing her voice again.

"Hi, you've reached Hannah Baxter. Leave a message."

Well, so much for that.

"Hi, it's me, Hardy. Erm, I'll be in London the weekend after next and, well, I'd love to see you. Gimme a ring... I miss you."

"Hi, dunno if you got my last message, I'll be in London this weekend we could… catch up. Gimme a ring, please."

"Hey, if I can't see you there's really no point in going to London so… yeah, maybe another time if—if you want."

"Me again, just let me know how you're doing."

Finally, he'd sent an email, a last ditch effort to connect with her.

"Hello Hannah. I'm sending this message in case something is wrong with your mobile. You haven't returned my calls or texts. Are you all right?"

He received this reply the next day:

"Yes, don't worry."

And that was the end of it. He'd just been another client after all.

From then on, he became moody and impatient, more so than he usually was. He felt the stress of everyday life piling on his shoulders with no way to lighten its weight even temporarily. Among his DS and other officers, there were talks that maybe he wasn't fit to be a DI after all.

His only moment of rest was to watch the telly with his daughter. She'd taken a liking to a sci-fi show from his childhood that had been recently rebooted. It made him happy to be able to share that with her but that was only a few hours a week.

Slowly, the emptiness turned into something raw, thoughts that he'd been played, manipulated, plagued him. He'd been a fool and she'd let him believe he was loved.

Other days he was more positive, he remembered she'd let him stay the night and they'd shared secrets under the duvet. They'd been domestic almost, cooking and watching telly and arguing about silly things. She'd taken care of him and he'd taken care of her. Surely, she could've seen other clients during that time. It was a lot of effort to guarantee a steady income of £150 every three weeks. But those thoughts were few and far in between.

He was only just starting to get over her. She crossed his mind only once or twice a day now and he stopped checking his phone in the middle of the night. He ignored the tight feeling in his chest and dragged his feet to work.

He was a policeman, it was in his nature to get to the bottom of things, to find out the truth. Now he simply didn't know what to believe and, as if to confuse him further, after a whole month without any sign of life, Hannah showed up at his workplace.

His office door opened on a Monday afternoon to let in DS Radcliffe, who was escorting Hannah inside. Hardy blinked a few times. She really was there, in full escort get-up too, more than he'd ever seen her: big curly hair, smokey eyes, red lips, tight dress and killer heels. She looked beautiful. However, something was amiss. Her posture was stiff, unnatural, even her smile was a facade, a stretch of lips that didn't reach her eyes. He tried to see Hannah behind all the layers of Belle, but it was like she wouldn't let him. There was a cold edge to the way she looked at him, almost like defiance.

He got the distinct feeling that he was being provoked.

"She asked to see you," Radcliffe said to break the tense silence.

"Leave us and close the door."

Radcliffe hesitated but complied when the full weight of Hardy's glare settled on him. A few rubberneckers, whose attention Hannah had drawn, tried to peer into his office.

The door closed and only the sound of measured breath filled the heavy silence.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing here?" Alec hissed through his teeth, rising from his chair. "For fuck's sake Hannah, you can't do that!"

He'd been so careful to keep her and his family life separated. She couldn't barge him on in like that and disrupt that precarious balance. Especially not after the way she'd treated him. And that was it really, the roots of his anger, so much deeper than her unexpected presence at his workplace. He felt it boil in his heart, kept under pressure for too long.

"Why didn't you bloody call instead?"

The corner of her mouth curved slightly upward and he got that feeling again that he was being provoked or tested even. She ran a fingertip under her fringe and cleared her throat.

"I want to make an appointment," she said in a level voice, but again it sounded fake, hollow.

She slid an envelope across his desk. Hardy pinched the bridge of his nose with a grunt.

"I don't have time for your stupid, fucking games."

Their eyes met and she lost her countenance, just a flinch across her face and a slight buckle of her knees. It lasted only a fraction of a second but it was long enough to take his anger down a notch.

"Han…"

But she turned on her heels and left his office without another word.

Alec kicked a chair, sending it to the floor, then braced himself against his desk. He took deep, supposedly calming breaths. People were downright staring at him through the window now.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

He ran a hand through his hair and across his cheek and mouth.

"Bollocks!"

His eyes landed on the envelope she'd given him. He considered throwing it away altogether but curiosity got the best of him. Inside, he found a pile of pound notes, roughly the amount he used to pay her by the looks of it, and a key card to the Holiday Inn by the A35. There was message as well: "Room 416, 6pm".

Radcliffe walked back in his office.

"Doesn't anyone knock in this bloody place?"

The DS didn't reply, his blue eyes were set on the key card sporting a distinct Holiday Inn logo. Hardy threw it away immediately.

"I have no idea what this was about… and neither do you."

"Shit man, how long has this been going on?"

Hardy didn't reply.

He could barely focus for the rest of the day, once his anger had subsided, he started really trying to figure out why she'd come all the way to Sandbrook and why she'd had that attitude.

She was always a nutter, he'd told her so the first time they'd met, but this still seemed out of character. He worried that it was a cry for help, not just for attention.

He told his wife that one of his mates from London was in town and that he seemed distraught, which wasn't far from the truth. They were going to the pub, and he would come back home late.

He left the office early and drove to the hotel without really seeing the road. When he arrived, it was only 5pm. He walked past the reception desk, pretending to know where he was going and trying not to attract attention. In the elevator, he wondered if that's how she felt when she was going to meet a client.

He knocked twice on the door without getting an answer, so he tried the key card and the door opened. There was no one.

He studied the room like he would a crime scene. The bed was neatly made so she hadn't slept here. There was a half-eaten Uppercrust sandwich on the bedside table therefore she must have arrived in town in the early afternoon. His hypothesis was confirmed by the first class train ticket he found. Hannah's flat was always tidy, so the clothes and cosmetics strewn about might indicate that she was in a hurry. There was also a bottle of Jack Daniels missing from the mini-fridge. Nerves maybe, or sorrow.

He had learned _some_ things but not what she was doing here and why she had acted that way. He tried calling, but it went straight to her voice mail.

He walked the length of the carpeted room several times, rubbing his forehead and cursing under his breath. He alternated between being worried and furious and he hated that rollercoaster. He needed something to do.

"She wants to pay me for sex, that's what she'll get."

Alec took a shower, hanging his shirt in the bathroom, hoping the steam would get some of the wrinkles out. Thankfully, the shower gel provided by the hotel had a gender neutral smell, green tea and bergamot — it smelled like lime as far as he was concerned. He wished he had some clean underwear, might as well go without, but it felt weird. Then, he shaved with the flimsy piece of plastic the hotel tried to pass off as a razor. He also called room service to order some champagne which he paid for with the money she'd given him. He cleared the bed and selected one of those smooth jazz channels on the telly. He felt ridiculous, but at least it kept him occupied and his mind clear.

He was trying to decide whether he should sit in the armchair or on the bed, just thinking of finding a sexy pose made him cringe, but then he heard the electronic buzz of the door lock. Hannah's steps wavered when she saw him, she looked him over, then between him and the bottle of Prosecco.

He cleared his throat.

"Hi."

He took her coat, purse and shopping bags, tossed them on the desk.

"… Hi."

"Champagne?"

It looked almost as though she hadn't really expected him to come. He persisted with the act. He filled two glasses, put one in her hand and drank from the other, he certainly needed liquid courage.

"How about we put you in a nice, hot shower?" he asked.

Hannah finally snapped out of it.

"You think this is a joke?"

"I dunno what this is. Enlighten me."

They stared at each other, a battle of wills.

"No, you're right," she said, "I'll have a shower, thank you very much."

She put her glass down on the desk with a loud clunk and disappeared into the bathroom. Not long after, he heard the shower running.

While he waited, he drank another flute of Prosecco, then sat on the pearly grey coverlet, idly rolling the stem of the glass between his fingers.

She came out wearing his shirt, he'd somehow forgotten it in the bathroom. She walked over to him and nudged his legs opened with her knee. She looked at him expectantly without a word or a touch. So he slowly began undressing her, starting with the last button of the shirt.

When he reached her neck, he slipped his middle finger between the two panels of the shirt.

"What do you want?"

"Keep going."

He dragged his finger down over her sternum, then brushed the underside of each breast, holding her gaze. He continued to slowly move his finger down her stomach, to her navel, then lower, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. There, he splayed his hand, low on her pelvis and she involuntarily bucked into his palm. He bit back a smirk.

"Why are you here?" he spoke calmly.

"I don't think it's fair," she said, "that you can just pay me whenever you need to and I can't."

He brushed his thumb across the hem of her knickers.

"Are you saying you need me?"

"You always need to feel so special, Hardy the lil' snowfl—" she gasped, he'd slipped his thumb just over her clit.

"Do you need me?" he repeated.

He moved his thumb, barely so.

"Don't make me say it," she replied, her voice a little breathless.

He peeled her knickers all the way down her legs and slowly moved his hands back up her calves, past her knees, to the apex of her thighs. Hannah was chewing her bottom lip, her wide eyes following his movements. He caressed her inner thighs, tracing mazes on her sensitive skin. Her breath came faster, her jaw slacked. He reached her outer lips with his middle finger, trailing it across the slit, back and forth with just a little more pressure every time. Holding her gaze, he kept this maddening pace until her knees buckled.

"Ok, I want you," she said hurriedly, bracing her hands on his shoulders.

"That's not what I asked."

"Doesn't matter, I'm the client, you do what _I_ say," she replied harshly.

That defiance of hers was really unnerving today. He thrust a finger up, causing a sharp intake of breath.

"I never treated you like that."

He moved slowly in and out, then added a second finger in her wetness, keeping up the pace, then pressed the heel of his hand, pleasing her the way he'd learned to. She was gripping his shoulders now, and not just for support, leaving red crescents on his freckled skin. Judging by the sounds she was making, she was close. He slowed down.

"I'll say it after," she bargained.

He chuckled and wiped his fingers on her thigh. She caught his wrist.

"What does it matter to you, anyway?" she said, her voice tittering on the edge of a sob.

He used her hold on his wrist to pull her forward across his lap.

"It matters a lot."

His hand slipped back between her legs, picking up where he'd left off, her breath was hot and short against his skin as she held on to him. Her juices coated his hand and wet noises echoed in the room. He fingered her until she shook against him, suppressing her moans in the crook of his neck. He caressed her hair as she came down from her high.

"I need you," she said after a while, her voice still muffled.

"I need you too," he replied despite his best judgement, "Tell me what happened."

She shook her head. He wondered if he should insist but she slid to the floor between his legs. Looking up at him, she ran her hand over the bulge in his trousers.

"Are you trying to distract me?"

"What makes you say that?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes, the perfect picture of innocence, except for the fact that he could feel her breath on his cock.

She unfastened his trousers, tugged them down and kissed her way up his inner thigh, never breaking eye contact. The minute her tongue snaked over his member, any coherent thought he might have had flew out of his brain.

Her mouth was hot and it did impossible things that made him curse and lose track of reality.

"Fuck, Hannah. Bloody hell, that's— fuck!"

She laughed around him which was a strange but not unpleasant sensation. She bobbed her head faster, stroking the part she couldn't take in, hollowing her cheeks. He gripped the covers, his toes curled and he came in her mouth with a barely suppressed groan.

It had never happened like that, without protection, and a sort of primitive satisfaction overcame him when he saw his seed on her lips. He bent down and she met him halfway, in a messy, desperate kiss. The first one since she had arrived.

He rested his forehead on hers and ran the back of his fingers along her jaw. She leaned in his touch, nuzzling his palm like a kitten.

"You don't need to test me. Just call and I'll come."

She nodded, her arms encircled his waist and she moved further between his legs.

Afterwards, they settled under the crisp covers, holding each other in silence. Outside, the sun was only just starting to set, the orange glow bouncing off fat raindrops. He ran his fingers through her silky tresses and she played with the sparse hair on his chest, sneaking a few teasing caresses and kisses lower on his torso.

"I wanted you to be angry with me," Hannah said, her voice just a whisper.

"Wha'? Why?"

She hid her face in the crook of his neck.

"I just thought, I don't know, it's stupid, but I couldn't bring myself to break it off, couldn't stop thinking about you and I figured…. it'd be easier if you didn't want to see me anymore."

"I suppose, it'd be better if…"

When he didn't finish his answer, she chanced a glance at him. He simply couldn't say it. He kissed her fiercely, pouring everything he felt in it, holding her cheeks like the precious being she was and she responded in kind. He was too far gone now, she was under his skin, even the promise of a tragic end couldn't stop this. Because somewhere in his heart, there was still a little spark of hope that they'd get an impossible happy ending.

With a nudge, she encouraged him to roll over her, spreading her legs to accommodate his narrow hips. He held the back of her neck and peppered kisses along her jaw and throat.

The telephone rang and they shared a puzzled look.

"It's your room."

She extended her arm as far as she could without extracting herself from Hardy's embrace. She picked up but remained silent.

"It's for you, it's your wife."


	11. London, Automn 2009

**:: London, Automn 2009 ::**

Alec wiped his clammy hands on his trousers before pressing the button to flat 23. This was such a bad idea. He almost turned around and left but she buzzed him in immediately. The wad of cash felt heavy in the inner pocket of his coat and he wondered if the neighbours he rode the elevator with knew what he was about to do.

The first time they'd met in London, she'd found out he was married. She'd told him he had to pay if he wanted to see her again. He did. He simply couldn't let things end the way they had.

Somehow, he'd managed to convince himself that he would only have a drink and chill out with Hannah. Not that he was the kind of person who chills out. Of course, he'd thought — fantasized — about having sex with her but he had every intention of keeping his clothes on for the whole duration of the appointment. He would explain that, yes, he was married, but he liked her company, and wished they could be friends. This was a purely social call.

Except that, when she opened the door, she was clad in nothing but lacy black underwear and red lipstick. His jaw dropped, he hadn't expected that.

"Hi, Alec."

She'd never called him Alec.

She kissed his cheek and took his coat and jacket.

His mouth went dry and he found himself unable to pronounce a single word.

"Shall we just get the transaction over with, it makes things easier."

He gave her the envelope and he watched £150, hard-earned money he'd been saving for a trip to Canada with his brother, just disappear.

He followed her to the living room where there was a bottle of champagne and two glasses, she held out one for him but he made no move to take it.

"Right, well, how about we put you in a nice, hot shower?"

And that's when Alec burst out laughing. He couldn't contain it, he doubled over, holding his stomach and he laughed until he couldn't breathe.

"What's with the voice?" he managed to ask.

"It's my sexy voice!" she replied, obviously piqued by his reaction.

"Sorry, you look lovely." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't know what I was expecting… I should go."

"No, don't." She grabbed his hands. "Look, there are plenty of clients that I don't have sex with. Well, only two really, but just think of it as an hour to do whatever you want and relax. Indulge."

Alec shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pondering her offer. Before he'd agreed to anything, she was pushing on his shoulders to make him sit down, and then she went into the kitchen. She came back in the living room with two bottles of beer and no shoes. He wondered if she would put on something to cover herself, but he had a hunch that she'd long ago abandoned any conventional principles of modesty.

Flipping through her DVD collection, she asked him how he'd been since their last encounter. He'd be hard pressed to remember what he said, but she nodded in all the right places and asked appropriate questions, of that he was certain. Hannah, she had a way to make him talk against his will.

His eyes kept drifting down her back to her bum, her knickers only covered half of it, displaying two perfectly round cheeks.

"Could you put something on?"

"Of course, what do you have in mind?" she asked, "I have a few costumes—"

"No, not like that, just... cover up."

"Find this distracting, do you?" she asked, running a thumb under the waistband of her panties with a tongue-touched smile.

Hardy laughed nervously and looked away.

She picked a kimono from the coat rack and slipped it on, loosely tying it over her hips. She turned on the television and popped _Die Hard_ in the DVD player, he vaguely remembered talking about Bruce Willis when he was drunk.

"I want to apologize," Hardy said and she looked at him over her shoulder with a furrowed brow, "for lying to you, about being married."

"Don't worry about it."

She smiled, but he suspected that it had more to do with her nice escort persona than a real acceptance of his apology.

"But I do. I got caught up in the pretense— anyway, I'm sorry."

"... thank you."

She smoothed her hair behind her ear and her hand came to rest on her face, partially covering a shy smile. He found that gesture absolutely endearing. His heart capsized.

"But, Hardy, this isn't more than what it is now, you get that?"

"Aye, no, of course… how d'you mean?"

She pressed play and walked up to him.

"I mean it could've been more but now it's… a transaction."

Alec nodded. It was probably for the best, he would just put this all behind him and carry on with his life. But how could he possibly do that now that he'd had a taste of something better?

"Hey," she said softly, interrupting his dispirited thoughts.

He looked up at her. God, she was beautiful. She brushed his fringe off his forehead with a gentle smile.

"You're here to have a good time, so drink up, enjoy the movie and relax."

He was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, bottle in his hands and she slipped in the gap between his body and the back of the seat. Only the cotton of his white shirt separated them. Her hands snaked around his neck to the front and she started undoing his tie. He stopped her.

"What you doing?"

"Don't worry. You want to relax and I'm an excellent masseuse. I've got a proper certificate and all. And no, I did not find it in a Kinder Surprise."

He let go of her hands but remained stiff. His tie came undone rather easily, the cheap fabric slipping between her manicured fingers, her dark nail polish alone was probably more expensive than the grey garment. She started undoing his buttons rapidly, then untucked his shirt and slid it off his arms. So much for keeping all his clothes on. But it was all done in a very efficient manner that didn't make his feel so wary anymore. That is, until he felt the lace of her bra against his back.

He jumped the first time she pressed her hands to skin.

"Christ, you're tensed."

"I've had a long week," he explained.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

She started with long, broad strokes. The lavender massage oil made his skin tingle and warm up. She hadn't lied, she was good, her thumbs pressed against the knots in his trapezoid, easing some of the tension in his back. She also used the side of her hands to follow the curve of his shoulder blades and her knuckles on each side his spine. His flesh was like clay in her hands and he gradually loosened up, a feeling of calm replacing the stress he had accumulated in the last weeks.

He started thinking that his wife paid a psychologist every week and that she went to the spa once a month. She said it was good for her mental health. How was this any different? For all he knew, maybe she fancied her masseuse. Oh, her shrink would have a field day with how he rationalized this situation.

By the time Hannah reached his pelvis, he'd totally lost track of the movie plot and had even closed his eyes, his head lolling down. Then she moved incrementally up his spine again, to his neck, to his head, massaging his scalp with the tip of her fingers. He had no idea the skull could be an erogenous zone. He heard her chuckling quietly, and he realized he'd been moaning.

"Like this do you?"

He felt the words against his cheek and became very aware of her thighs on each side of his body, the warmth of her skin, the scratch of lace, the softness of satin.

He turned his head and his lips brushed against her cheek. Her massage stopped. This time it's their noses that touched, a tiny nudge, and then a peck on one corner of his mouth, then on the other. She looked at him with wide, dark eyes, he could feel her chest heaving against his back, her short breath against his mouth. He brushed his lips against hers, barely so. She repeated the movement, but her tongue peeked out, tickling the seam of his mouth. His lips parted and she nipped the bottom one. He was only human. He kissed her, capturing and surrendering all at once.

Her hands moved down his body and around his waist, fingers splaying on the hairless skin of his ribs. His own hands remained firmly on his thighs, fingers clutching his trousers. And they kept on kissing, as if drinking from the fountain of youth.

She sucked on his bottom lip, prompting a groan from Alec. Her hands wandered around his hips, her little fingers barely skimming along his waistband but that was enough to make him buck up into thin air. Her taste, her smell, her warmth made him light-headed. _Fuck_. He wanted her so bad. Couldn't think straight.

He took hold of her left hand and guided it over the bulge in his trousers.

She didn't need any more instructions. She deftly opened his buttons and fly and in no time her hand was caressing his hardness.

"Tell me one of you fantasies, something you like to think about," she murmured, her mouth hot against his neck.

"You," was all he could say.

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

She pulled him out of the confines of his pants and stroked him more firmly.

"I would have let you shag me in the woods in Scotland, if you'd wanted to," she confessed.

He felt her shift, and her right hand slipped behind his back and between her legs.

"I would have let you fuck me in the clearing, in the car, at the back of the pub even."

Her hand sped up, both her hands. Mental images of taking her in all those places, some new, some he thought about every day, filled his mind.

"Fuck, Hannah."

Her movements stopped and he opened his eyes.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing, just… clients call me Belle."

He frowned but she twisted her wrist and kissed him again and he forgot all about that.

He could hear her breath coming in short pants over his shoulder. He had a fleeting thought that he didn't want this to end so quickly, but she moaned and shuddered and he came with a deep grunt. He'd barely had time to enjoy it.

She reached for a tissue on the coffee table and wiped them both. He reclined, catching his breath.

"How much time left?" he asked.

"About ten minutes."

"That's it?"

"Better make the most of it, what do you want to do?"

He pulled on her arm to make her straddle his legs. He ran his thumb over the angle of her jaw and she parted her lips, inclined her head. He used a finger under her chin to bring her mouth to his. There was no point in denying himself now. Just kissing, he thought. His hands stayed on her waist even though they itched to explore more of her skin, and he gave into the pleasure of her mouth, pliant and lush against his.

But then she slid forward, and he felt the cooling wetness of her knickers against him. And he didn't think it was still possible for him to recover so quickly. It certainly hadn't happened since his teenage years. And as more of his blood traveled south, so did his judgment. The kiss deepened, turned into something hungry, as their bodies pressed together. He wrapped his arms around her waist, held her close.

Whether she did it consciously or not, he didn't know, but Hannah was rubbing herself against him. Her knickers no longer cool. She broke the kiss and bit her bottom lip as she moved her hips more purposefully. She gave him a heated look through her thick eyelashes as if asking for permission. And that was it.

There was some fumbling and eager groping as they changed position so Hannah was on her back. There was some excited laughter that turned to contended moans as he finally pushed in. His mouth and hands were everywhere, touching and licking every inch of her skin like a starved man — which he was in a way. In his enthusiasm to discover her body, his rhythm faltered.

"Hardy," she moaned in complaint, jerking her hips to bring him back to the task at hand.

He slipped his arms under her knees, tugged her closer, making her squeak in surprise. He was enthralled by the sight of her, the way she threw her head back and the way her pink lips parted, letting out soft little gasps. He hoped it was real. There was no way to know and somehow that thought made him redouble his efforts.

When her eyes fluttered closed and he felt her nails in his forearm, he knew he was doing it right. Feeling like he could go on forever, he sped up, going deeper and harder. He babbled, praising and cursing deities all at once. Keening sounds escaped her throat and made him delirious with lust.

Soon, he felt his control slip. He tried to hold on to it, conjuring unsexy images of grannies and rugby players, but to no avail. He was overwhelmed by the feel of her. He reached for her hand or she did, their fingers entwined above her head. He said her name and their eyes met. It was his undoing.

She gently ran her hand through his hair, holding his head to her still heaving chest.

"Sorry for the overtime," he said.

"Meh, don't worry about it."

And so it began.


	12. London, August 2013

**:: London, August 2013 ::**

If there's one thing Hannah loves about her field of work, it's the fact that she can go shopping on Oxford street at 1pm on a Thursday when there are far less customers than on the weekend. Her number one stop is Selfridges & Co. which she enters through a side door, thus avoiding the odorous fragrance counters.

She visits the cosmetic section first, in search of a lipstick. She takes her time, trying on different shades, to the point where the shop girl rolls her eyes when she thinks Hannah's not looking. She ends up paying an extravagant amount of money for something that will most likely end up on someone's dick. But if there's one thing Hannah believes in, it's the perfect shade of red.

"Fearless red"— now that's the color for her.

In reality, her trip to the store is work related. As a client liaison for _Noir & Aphrodite_, she sometimes has to find the perfect outfit to make a client's fantasy come true. In this case, it's a lovely VIP couple who will be attending their first orgy this Saturday. Hannah looks up the women's measurements on her iPad and starts browsing designer cocktail dresses with the help of an employee. She'd rather be shopping for herself, but getting paid to shop for someone else is not so far from her dream job.

After finding a few Helmut Lang and Mark Jacobs options for her clients, she heads to the third floor to meet her loyal friends: Princess Tam Tam, Mimi Holliday and Agent Provocateur. She lets her fingers glide over the soft and luxurious fabrics in all shades, picking any item that tickles her fancy. Some for her clients and some for herself.

With a pile of lingerie on her arm, she settles in one of the spacious and warmly lit dressing rooms of the store. She takes off her clothes and tries on the first bra. She's always been partial to black lace, but this emerald green number looks divine. She tries the matching knickers and when she contorts to look at her bum, she sees the scars on the back of her thighs. They're faded now, not as red and glistening and angry as they used to be, but they're still there. Maybe just bras today, then.

She hears her ringtone, Blondie's _Call me_, muffled by the clothes stacked over her mobile, and after searching through the pile she answers right away.

"Hello?"

"Hi… Hannah Baxter?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's Hardy… Alec Hardy."

Her heart rate doubles instantly.

"Hello? Hannah?"

She hangs up.

No.

No. It can't be.

She takes a deep, shaky breath, leaning heavily against the wall.

Her phone rings again, she doesn't take the call. In fact, she even throws away the phone.

Her eyes well up but she fights to hold them back. She thought she was over this, but this sudden call has ripped the scab right off the wound.

She doesn't finish shopping, instead she goes straight back home in a cab. She's so lost in her thoughts, she doesn't even notice when the driver stops in front of her house.

"You all right, luv?"

She hands him some money without checking if it's the right amount and drags her feet to her door, in a state of stupor.

Inside, an Australian shepherd welcomes her enthusiastically. It follows her around as she hangs the cocktail dresses then collapses on the white leather sofa protected by a blue blanket. The dog puts its head on her knees, looking up at her with its big brown eyes, and she pets its head absentmindedly.

One the coffee table in front of her is a neat stack of newspapers and a pile of articles printed from the web. She's read all that in the last few week. A copy of the Daily Herald forgotten on the back seat of a taxi with Alec's face on it and the headline "Worst cop in Britain" had made her do some research.

She knows the facts now. Some of her questions were answered. She's still mad at him but for a different reason now. And there are also new questions pestering her. After his phone call, the one on the forefront of her mind is: why now?

But what she has learned has also kindled a tiny spark of hope that she thought she had extinguished long ago: maybe he had really loved her, maybe he had a good reason for doing what he did.

If she knows him at all, he'll call again and this time she'll be prepared.

Her phone rings the following afternoon.

"What do you want, Hardy?" she asks right away.

"… Hannah?"

"Yeah."

"…Erm, well, I just wanna explain what happened, apologize."

There's something different about his voice, not exasperated exactly, but weary.

"Why now?"

Hardy grows silent and she can tell he won't answer her question.

"Can we meet?" he asks after a moment.

"I'll think about it."


	13. London, July 2011

**:: London, July 2011 ::**

"I don't think you're supposed to call me," Hannah said quite bitterly when Hardy rang her.

Two weeks ago, his wife had called while they were in bed together. He'd left the Holiday Inn almost immediately after the call. He'd said "this isn't over, I'll figure out something" but Hannah hadn't believed him. She didn't want to believe him. She didn't want to hope. She was doomed to be heartbroken from the start, there was no point in dragging this out for any longer.

"I do what I want," he replied, "and I wanna talk to you."

"I don't want to hear about your conjugal problems, Hardy," she said, flopping down on her bed.

"Good, 'cause I don't wanna talk about them. Just… dunno, tell me what you've been up to."

She considered his request maybe for a while too long because she heard him check if the call had been disconnected.

He'd always been good at giving her advice and she needed it right now. She was thinking of writing a third book but had qualms about it. Aside from the fact that he'd slept with her while he was married, he was quite a level-headed, wise kind of bloke. He had a knack for getting at the heart of the problem even though it made her feel like she was being interrogated sometimes. So she relented and told him about meeting with a new editor and Ben's encouragements.

Eventually, the conversation veered to other topics and she found herself slipping back into the easy banter there had always been between them. She loved how she could make fun of him and how he couldn't stay mad at her. She loved that his accent got heavier as he got sleepier. She loved when they stopped talking and she could hear him move around, opening the fridge or skipping through channels. She imagined it would be just the same if they were to live together; she'd work on her computer or fix her hair while he read the newspaper or watched _Mock the Week_ and the flat wouldn't be so silent and empty anymore.

Before hanging up, Hannah couldn't resist asking how he was doing even though she'd said she didn't want to hear about it.

"Fine… we're talking, sorting things out. It's unpleasant but I'm fine."

And that was all he would say.

She was the one to call the next time, late at night while she couldn't sleep or write. He slept on the couch now anyway. She fell asleep with the phone on her pillow.

Then he called her from the sea shore, she could hear seagulls and waves in the background, and she wished they could sit in the sand together. They laughed as they made impossible plans to go to Cuba to drink rum, sleep in hammocks and have sex on the beach.

"I hate sand, my shoes will be full of it."

"You hate everything except Glasgow."

"You're a close second."

"Shut up."

When she asked how things were at home, he said he had an appointment with a solicitor. Maybe going to the beach with him wasn't so unlikely after all.

A week later, he announced that he was getting divorced. Hannah's chest was suddenly filled with hope which was quickly crushed by panic.

"You're not leaving your wife for me, are you?"

She had no desire to be solely responsible for his divorce and even less for his future happiness. Although, she couldn't deny that it would be flattering.

"No… it's— it's one of many things… we've been unhappy for a long time, even before I met you, we'd just never talked about it. Meeting you was like a catalyst."

She sighed with relief.

"Look, we haven't told our daughter yet, she's off to camp for two weeks and Liz will go to her mum's, so I was thinking — no pressure — but we could maybe go somewhere and… just be free."

"Yeah, I'd like that," she replied with a smile in her voice.

"Good! Fantastic!"

They discussed places they'd like to visit as she looked things up on the Internet. She talked about the Canary Islands, and he talked about Brighton. He reminded her that he wasn't rich, and she told him she was, to which he replied with a grunt.

"Oh don't be so old-fashioned," she teased him.

Finally, she found a last-minute deal for a weekend in Amsterdam with Eurostar that appealed to both of them. She typed in the required information with a giddy excitement. She was about to click "done" when she had a moment of doubt. She remembered awful stories from other girls who had been deceived by married men. She'd always thought she was a better judge of character, maybe even smarter than them. But what if she wasn't? She might not even be the first? Maybe he constantly swept women off their feet with his whole grumpy but kind-hearted persona.

"Maybe we should wait a little," she said.

"Why? I don't think we'll get a better price."

"No, I mean, 'cause it's in a while, you might, I don't know, change your mind."

"I don't think so."

She heard the bristle of his scruffy cheek against his palm and a long exhale of breath.

"What are you after?" he asked.

She didn't know how to explain, she fiddled with a stay thread from her sweater, annoyed with herself and this fucked up situation.

"It's not like the papers are signed or anything," she mumbled.

Hardy groaned and she didn't have to see him to know that he was pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Did I ever give you a reason not to trust me?"

"Did you ever give your wife one?" she replied defensively.

"D'you think I don't have my doubts about you?" he asked, and she was disconcerted by the sudden turn of the conversation, "d'you think I'm not scared I'm making a fool of myself? You're a prostitute for God's sake!"

"Then why do it at all?" her voice hit that high-pitched note it did when she was upset.

"'Cause I bloody love you, alright?"

"Oh."

She felt a blush spread to her cheeks.

"I'm taking a leap of faith and I hope you will too," Hardy said, his voice still taut, "Friday, 4pm, St Pancras station, I'll be there, promise."

He wasn't.


	14. Broadchurch, August 2013 pt4

A/N: Only one chapter left after this one!

**:: Broadchurch, August 2014 ::**

Hannah has received three quizzical looks in less than an hour. The first, from the train attendant when she asked where the police station is in this town. The second, from the constable at the police station when she asked to see DI Hardy. And the third, from Becca Fisher when she said she was a friend of Alec's.

Despite that, she's relieved to have managed to find him so easily, that's one thing to say for small towns. She walks up the carpeted stairs and down the corridor the receptionist has indicated.

She'd thought about seeing him again as she'd told him she would when he'd called her the second time, and once she'd made up her mind, she couldn't wait, and she'd taken the first train to Broadchurch without warning him.

She also figured that this way he would have to face her and explain why he stood her up two years ago despite promising he would be there and saying he loved her. (Her therapist would have something to say about her control issues). She is determined to get answers to all her questions. Or _was_ determined. Her nerves threaten to get the best of her, the nearer she gets to his hotel room.

She takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. She hears a groan on the other side and some shuffling. When he opens the door, he's in a grey undershirt and a striped pyjama bottom. He looks… terrible.

She smiles nervously and tucks her chin in her shoulder.

"Hi!"

Hardy's eyes widen in surprise.

"Hannah?"

But then, he stumbles forward, grimacing and clutching his chest. With a shriek, she catches him just in time. He manages to get back on his feet and staggers away, moaning in pain. In case he falls again, she stays behind him, arms outstretched. In the bathroom, he struggles with a pack of medicine, then swallows a white pill with a handful of water. With her help, he sits down on the ceramic floor, breathing through clenched teeth.

"What's going on?" Hannah cries as she sits on her haunches in front of him, "You're not having a heart attack, are you?"

"Naaaw."

He's still breathing heavily, chest heaving, as he brushes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

"Get me some water, a bottle, downstairs," he says in a croaky voice.

She's up and out the door in a flash, eager to do something helpful. She buys a bottle of still water from the bar. As she walks back to the room, it occurs to her that he probably just wanted to get rid of her while he recovered.

On her way back, she pauses by the emergency exit. Her eyes shift between his bedroom door and the exit door. But she keeps on walking, she needs the answers only he can give her to be able to move on.

When she enters, he's sitting on the bed, safe and sound, except for his ego. She hands him the bottle, chucks her coat and purse on the armchair, and sits down next to him on the beige bedspread. He drinks, staring at their reflection in the window.

"What was that?" she asks,voice calmer than earlier.

"Nothing, don't worry."

He waves dismissively and Hannah rolls her eyes.

She doesn't insist, and both take some time to recuperate from the shock.

The woodsy fragrance of his shower gel, the same he's always used, permeates the room and it's like being thrown back in time. And when he finally looks at her, those whiskey eyes bring forth a wave of emotions and memories that sends her own heart beating erratically.

She looks away, focusing on the feather pattern of her top, willing her heart to slow down.

She feels his hand on her shoulder, his palm clammy but reassuring.

"You all right?" he asks.

"I didn't expect this. I didn't mean to, well, have so much effect on you."

She chuckles nervously. She'd imagined their reunion many times, and not just in the last few day, but none of these scenarios had prepared her for this.

"It's not your fault…" he adds, voice still raspy, "I'm glad you're here, just a wee bit surprised."

They grow quiet and it's nothing like the companionable silences they used to share. She chances a glance back at him, at his thick scruff and unruly hair, at the fine lines on his freckled skin. He's as handsome as ever but faded, a photocopy of himself. He lets her observe him for a while before clearing his throat.

"Yeah, so, erm, I— you said you wanted to explain," she says.

He nods and takes a deep breath.

"I wanted to explain why I disappeared from your life." The words come out as if pre-recorded, disembodied almost. "Just two days before we were supposed to go to Amsterdam, a child was murdered in Sandbrook and—"

"I know that, I read it in the papers."

"Good, good, I was hoping you would."

"Was that your big plan? 'No need to call, she'll see it on the news'?" Hannah asks angry but trying to keep her voice level, "I only found out last month."

Alec looks sheepish.

She'd started by reading on Danny Latimer but the articles had led her to a previous murder case he'd been on. With the dates, she was quickly able to put two and two together and figure out why he hadn't met her at the train station.

"I get that you couldn't come to Amsterdam and I'm sure it must have been a very difficult time for you," she says, trying to sound as empathic as possible, "what I don't get is why you never called to explain until now. I would've understood, we could've rescheduled... Didn't I deserve that, at least?"

He nods and skews his jaw, taking his time before answering.

"It's just that… talking to parents who'd just lost their daughter, it put everything in perspective. I was about to get divorced, I was voluntarily giving up on seeing Julia every day, I… I couldn't do it."

"You're still married?"

She backs away from him.

"No, not anymore."

He explains that they'd decided to give their marriage a second chance and it had worked out for a while, but the shaky foundations of their relationship had crumbled under the pressure of working this case. He soon found out that his wife was cheating on him with DS Radcliffe. An affair that he suspected had started before, it not sexually, at least emotionally.

"Still doesn't explain why you didn't call."

"I didn't think I would be able— one phone call and I would have gone back running to London— to you."

Hannah looks at him, eyes and mouth wide with outrage.

"Oh, you wimp! I waited for you, six hours, six bloody hours, do you know how humiliating that is? And you wouldn't even answer your phone… you'd promised," her voice breaks.

"I know…"

"No you don't."

"Yes, 'cause you'd done the same thing to me once, remember? You know how hard it is, moving on from— from something like that, I mean, even right now, I…" he sighs.

"What?"

He holds her gaze, willing her to understand how he longs to touch her and hold her like he used to. He could do it so freely, whenever he felt like it, knowing she would accept it because they had that level of intimacy in which one person becomes an extension of the other. He's missed the tenderness of the smallest touches and the feeling of being complete when she was in his arms. She understands his silent answer because her own fingers yearn to reach him, comfort him, but she doesn't let herself give in, not yet.

"What about after, when you divorced?"

He tells Hannah about the pendant, their one crucial piece of evidence, and how it was stolen while the two detective sergeants were shagging behind his back. He'd taken the blame, it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been a lousy husband in the first place. Most of all, he didn't want his daughter knowing that about her mother. He felt responsible, and it only got worse when the trial began and it all fell apart. He'd failed the victim's family and his own as well.

It was a dark time. He got sick. In his tortured mind, it was divine justice or fate or karma, whatever you want to call it. He reveled in this punishment. He'd been selfish and he was paying the price. It comforted him in his view of the world.

As he recounts the story, he tries to keep a brave face but his voice is strangled and his eyes are welling up. It tugs at Hannah's heart, seeing him like this, and she can't hold back any longer. She takes his hands. He stops talking abruptly and stares at their joined hands.

He can't remember the last time someone touched him with something other than cool, medical efficiency. Her touch wakes up dormant nerve endings in his skin, makes them spark back to life and jump start his heart.

He kisses her knuckles reverently.

"I never stopped thinking about you," he whispers.

His words appease something in her, like warm milk on a sore throat. She'd never really stopped thinking about him either and it wasn't for lack of trying.

"And what's going on with your life now?" she asks, persevering in her will to get answers.

Keeping her hands firmly in his, he tells her about his grim situation, but as it often is with Hardy, she has to ask many questions to get the full story out of him. She gathers that his daughter barely talks to him, that he's invalided out and that he needs an operation he might not survive.

"Is that why you called me? Because you're sick and you want to be forgiven before you die or something."

"No!... I really want you in my life again. I— I want us to pick where we left off, we have a second chance, we could make it work. I want everything with you, Hannah. I mean, I was happy, truly happy, when we were together and I think that, if I can have that again, I'll get better."

He hadn't meant to say all that, to sound so needy, but she's so beautiful, and she's come all the way here and her very presence soothes every ache in his soul. So the words come rushing out, straight from his heart and past his lips.

"I don't have anything left," he concludes.

Hannah lets out a deep, stuttering breath, her eyes search his face.

"I don't want to be your everything…" she says in a strangled voice as her eyes well up, "It's too much to ask from one person."

His grip on her hands tightens, he knows he's losing her.

"I should go."

"Please…I need you."

And that's when she truly sees that he's at the end of his rope. That scares her more than anything.

He runs the back of his fingers along her jaw, and it's not fair that this simple touch can still have so much effect on her. Her eyes flutter shut, a tear rolling down her cheek. His movement continues from the angle of her jaw to the nape of her neck, moving up and delving into her hair. Her heart picks up when she opens her eyes and sees raw emotions in his. A tilt of her head is all the incentive he needs to take her mouth, to reclaim it. She responds in kind. God, she's missed his kisses. Their edge of desperation and longing, always kissing her like it's the last time and it might well be.

The kiss deepens and he pushes forward with a growl until she's on her back. A warning flashes in her mind but it's gone as quickly as it has appeared. Hardy's hand has slipped under her shirt and her legs are spreading to cradle his hips. And he's on her neck and collarbone, kissing, sucking, nipping. She wants nothing more than to feel his skin on hers, to have that connection again.

He grunts, and she realizes it's not in pleasure when he rolls off her, breathing heavily, face scrunched up in pain.

"Shit!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, just—" he holds her wrist and takes deep breaths until the pain has passed. "You'll be the death of me," he adds with a wheezy chuckle that turns into coughing.

"Don't say that!"

He chuckles again and she relaxes a little. But it's a painful reminder that things can't be the way they were.

She covers her eyes with her forearm, sighing deeply. He laces their fingers, thumb rubbing the back of her hand as his breathing slowly evens out. The silence in the room grows heavy with melancholy and broken dreams.

When he gives her hand a little squeeze, she glances at him. He turns on his side and gently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Her heart stutters again.

"Stay the night, just one night."

"I can't stay… obviously there's still... something here, but I don't think I am what you really need."

"You don't know that."

"I don't think you'd want me to stay out of pity."

He clenches his jaw, the way that digs dimples in his cheeks.

"You won't be able to get back to London at this hour," he counters.

She can feel her resolve melt. It's those soulful eyes, the way he looks at her, always has, like she's holding the universe in her gaze and he's trying to figure it out.

"No, I can't… if I don't go now, I never will," she says, rolling off the bed.

She runs a hand through her hair and over her mouth, waiting for him to say something but he doesn't, he's not even looking at her. She picks up her bag and coat, and unlocks the door.

"Don't run away because you're scared."

"Then don't ask so much of me."


	15. Glasgow, August 2013

TW: mention of assault

* * *

><p><strong>::Glasgow and London, August 2013::<strong>

Hardy turns around as his sister, Erin, walks out of her house and onto the patio. The tea tray she's carrying rattles as she tries to close the door with her elbow, and he immediately helps her out. He sets the tray on the table, and they move the white plastic chairs so they can both sit in the shade, thus protecting their freckled skins from the unusually bright sun.

"So are you ready to tell me what happened?" Erin asks as she pours mint tea in their mugs.

"What d'you wanna know?"

"Well, you mentioned a woman."

"Figured you'd pick up on that."

He looks over at his daughter to make sure she's out of earshot; she's listening to music, sitting in the sun with her cousins a little farther away in the backyard.

"Have you put on sunscreen, darling?" he asks.

"Yes, Alec," the teenager replies with an eye roll.

"Alec?" Erin mouths with raised eyebrows.

He shrugs, his daughter had taken to calling him by his first name not long after the divorce. It hurts every time. But she has agreed to come to Glasgow with him, which is a big step toward mending their relationship.

"So, the mysterious woman?"

His sister looks at him expectantly, chin in her palm. She's always had a curious look about her, it's her pointy nose and sticky-out ears, they make her look like a mouse.

"Her name's Hannah, I met her four years ago, the day mum died."

He's never told anyone the whole story of how he met Hannah, of their illicit encounters in London and of their plans to go away together. But he's always been closer to his youngest sister than to any of his other siblings, she's the only person he can imagine talking to about this matter. Plus, she's a woman, so she might offer some precious insight. So he tells her the facts, skips over the details. If she's shocked at first by his liaison with an escort, she quickly warms up to Hannah when she sees her brother's goofy smile at the mere mention of her. He shows her a picture he keeps in his wallet, tucked behind the one of his daughter.

"Aaawww."

"Don't look at me like that."

"You're in luuuurve, yea numpty," she nudges him with her elbow.

"Shut up. I'm not, I'm furious."

He tells her about Hannah's disastrous visit to Broadchurch.

"What you gonna do?" Erin asks.

"Nothing. Either she likes me the way I am or she doesn't," Hardy flat out declares.

Erin picks a jaffa cake from the plate and nibbles on it absent-mindedly, mulling over his last statement. Then she looks at him, opens her mouth to speak but shuts it back.

"Wha'?"

"Well…can you honestly say you've been yourself in the last two years?"

He frowns.

"I don't think so," Erin continues, "I mean, you're obviously doing better now compared to, say, this winter, but you still seem to be wallowing in guilt and self-pity."

Hardy glares at her.

"Three kids were murdered, Erin!"

"I know, you have every right to feel that way too, and it's not like you can be your old self again after something like that, but it's no good for you or for anyone. 'S not gonna change anything, only makes you unhappy. You've always been strong-headed, and if you had enough will to find that boy's killer despite all the obstacles, I think you can find the will to improve your life."

"Bloody inspiring."

Erin ignores his sarcasm and lays her hand on top of his.

"There are still people who care about you. Not many, I'll give you that, but still..."

She winks at him and the corners of his mouth quirk up.

He considers his sister's words while sipping the rest of his tea. He'd said to Hannah that he had nothing left, but the reality is that what was lost can be found again. It's up to him to get those things back, and he can if he puts his mind to it and accepts the help of those who care about him. The efforts he'd put into finding Hannah had already given him a sense of control back on his life, he had a goal, he was being proactive, he could apply that to other areas of his life.

"It won't change anything to how much I want her back."

"You gotta act quick, then."

"How?"

"Get a bloody haircut, for starters."

He spends the next few days at his sister's house and visits other family members as well, some he hasn't seen in over a year. It goes better than he'd expected.

He also gets to show Julia around his favorite city, taking her to see the Highland cows at the Pollock Country Park, and he teaches her vulgar Scottish expressions while they visit the neighborhood where he grew up. After a few days, she forgets to call him Alec. Her first "daddy" warms his heart as much as, if not more than, the first time she ever pronounced the word, when she was just a toddler.

When he goes back to Broadchurch, he visits Ellie, to thank her and offer his support. To say she's surprised is an understatement.

Next on the agenda, is to see his doctor. The truth is that he's terrified, he knows that his condition has deteriorated with all the stress he's been through with the Latimer case. However, he can't bury his head in the sand anymore, this arrhythmia is not going to go away by itself.

And now, he's ready to contact Hannah again.

* * *

><p>She chose the meeting place: the <em>Fernandez &amp; Well café<em> on the Strand. He double checks his notepad when the _Google Map_ app guides him to an imposing 18th century building: The Somerset House.

He walks under one of the three stone arches leading to an inner courtyard where a dozen jets of water spurt from the ground. It seems redundant in this rainy weather.

He spots the café on his left, next to the museum bookshop. Knowing her punctuality, he arrived early. He orders a cup of Earl Grey and sits by the window, his chair facing the entrance.

The tall white walls decorated with modern art and the Scandinavian furniture make him ill at ease, like it's too cool for him. That wouldn't usually bother him, in his line of work, he's visited all kinds of places and has always walked in with confidence, but today he's very self-conscious. She's clearly set the meeting on her turf.

The place is empty except for the two baristas busy flirting with each other. The smell of rain and roasted coffee beans hangs in the room. He waits, tapping his foot and folding and unfolding the cuffs of the green shirt his sister made him buy.

He sees her first as she trots in through a side door, all loose blond curls and long legs. Beautiful but with closed, tight lips and a clenched jaw. Ice queen. It's good to know that she's as nervous as he is. Their eyes meet and his heart stutters, he feels dizzy in a good way this time (it helps that he's taking his medication correctly now).

He stands up to greet her and her eyes move up and down his body.

"You look… different."

"I am."

"Oo—kay, erm, I'll just…" she points a thumb at the counter and turns on her heels.

While she waits for her beverage, she runs her hands over her dress, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles in the blue silk.

She sits down in front of him, holding her mocha with two hands, warming herself on it. She still can't quite look at him directly, instead her eyes follow rivulets of rain on the glass pane.

"Do you live near here now?" he asks in an attempt to break the ice.

"No, I had an appointment with one of the gallery curators."

"So you're still…"

She shakes her head.

"It was for business but not the same kind I used to do."

"Why d'you stop?"

"Oh you know, even whores are affected by the recession."

There's a hint of a smile on her lips for the first time, and he finds himself smiling back. He doesn't tell her he knows about Detective Monroe and her involvement with the sexual crimes unit. There will be time for that later, or at least he hopes so.

"What do you do now, then?"

"I might show you later," she replies, "first I want to know what's up with you."

He tells her about the last few weeks and his efforts to rekindle relationships and improve his health. He'd hoped she would be glad, impressed even, but she narrows her eyes at him in suspicion.

"How serious are you about that? I mean, it's not just a phase, is it?"

"Very and no. You were right: you can't be my everything," he exhales and runs a hand through his shorter hair, "but I'd like you to be my… something. I meant what I said about being happy when I was with you."

She scratches her eyebrow and worries her bottom lip, he can tell he's scared her again.

"I don't know, Hardy."

"I'm not asking you to marry me, I just want to see you again, as much or as little as you want."

"Can we just hang out for now?"

He nods.

She has a set of keys in her hands she's been toying with since she's sat down and, after a moment of silence, she dangles them up in front of his face.

"Would you like to see the exhibition?"

He's taken aback by the non sequitur, but agrees anyway.

She leads him through corridors and staircases that all look the same to him until they reach a room on the North Wing's upper floor. She explains that Noir & Aphrodite, the event production company she works for, are in charge of organizing the private viewing for the gallery's new exhibition.

She unlocks the door and flicks a few light switches, revealing a large, open space with walls hung with black velvet, against which stands out the matte white marble of statues.

Hardy has never been keen on art, but the exhibition takes his breath away. The sculptures represent couples or groups, males and females, in various erotic poses. Lovers who have looked into Medusa's eyes. Nothing crude or voluntarily shocking, quite the opposite in fact. He finds himself embarrassed to look at them, the same way you do when you see a couple kissing or embracing on the street. It's intimate.

They walk around the room, exchanging only a few comments, most often about the unbelievable life-likeness of the sculptures. The flesh of a breast squeezed between fingers, the open-mouthed ecstasy of a man, a wet dress clinging to the body of a nymph and women weeping as they kiss, all set in stone.

Hannah had fallen in love with the sculptures the first time she'd seen them. Now, as she sees them again with Hardy there, she realizes how she's missed the intimacy they'd shared. A connection she'd never replicated with anyone else. She steps closer to him to take his hand but changes her mind at the last second.

There's a fountain in the middle of the room, water cascading over the voluptuous body of a mermaid intertwined with a sailor.

"The water will be pink on the opening night, and we have acrobats coming in to perform," she says, pointing at cables and long pieces of fabric attached to the ceiling.

"Acrobats?"

"Their performances are very sensual."

"That's the kind of work you do now?"

"This is a bit different actually, it's a big break for us. Our events are usually more underground. Verona, my boss, she's very ambitious."

Hannah isn't in charge of the logistic of the events. As a client liaison, she uses her people skills to really get to the heart of clients' fantasies to make them come true — in this case, the curator and the sculptor who are a couple. She tells him about fetishist speed-dating, themed orgies, erotic burlesque shows and swinger parties with genuine enthusiasm.

"And you said I was kinky when I asked you to wear that uniform," Hardy comments.

They chuckle at the memory of that night and it feels good to be able to talk about something happy from their past, to feel that complicity once again.

"That was a good night," Hannah says, a slight blush spreading to her cheeks.

He doesn't have to dig very far in his memory to remember; Hannah bent over her kitchen table, the skirt tucked in her waistband, the silly role playing that had them in stitches before long.

"Outstanding," Alec says, "I know you're a professional, but I always thought we were quite good, quite compatible."

"Oh, we were."

And it's his turn to blush.

They sit on a bench by the fountain, discussing some of their favorite moments together. The road trip to the sea. That outdoor screening of terrible horror B-movies on Halloween. That one time they were both sick and their shagging was continually interrupted by coughing and runny noses. They'd given up entirely after a while and had eaten soup and snuggled under a blanket.

"And remember Edgar the parrot?"

"Oh my god, yes!"

They laugh out loud, and his hand brushes against hers, and for a while they're carefree.

Their laughter dies down and the silence becomes unnerving with all these expressive humans captured in stone around them.

"Are you seeing anyone right now?" Alec asks.

"I have lovers," she replies, the plural doesn't escape him.

"Do you love any of them?"

Hannah shrugs.

"In a way."

"What way?"

"Like I used to love some clients, closer to affection I suppose… not like I loved you… I did love you, I never said."

And it feels so good to hear it, his heart swells in his chest and he can't resist laying his fingers over hers. She leans against him and smiles shyly.

It doesn't last.

"I've changed, though. Some things happened, I'm not the girl I used to be."

"I know about Detective Monroe," Hardy says.

Hannah stiffens beside him. He knows it wasn't the right moment to bring it up as soon as he sees the look on her face.

"I'm tired of talking about it," she says as she stands up.

She starts walking towards the door, getting her keys out of her purse. He catches up to her with a few long strides.

"I'm just worried."

"Don't be, I got help, I'm fine now."

She waves a dismissive hand, but he's frowning.

"And you, dating anyone?" she asks to change the topic, her voice sounding falsely aloof.

"Erm, no."

She turns off the lights, locks everything back up and they return to the main entrance. While they were in the gallery, the sun came out. They stand on the doorstep, looking out at the courtyard. The fountains seem less out of place now.

He doesn't want it to end, but it might. She's clearly upset. She slips her jacket back on and checks her mobile.

"Do you have to get back to work?" he asks tentatively.

"Not for another hour. I have a meeting."

She's toying with the keyset again, worrying her bottom lip.

"There's the Victoria embankment nearby, we could take a walk," she suggests.

Relief washes through him.

She guides him across the courtyard, to another archway, lower than the one he'd come through. Just on the other side of the street, he recognizes the Thames. He had no idea they were so close to the river, his sense of orientation is null in London.

There's still some coolness in the air from the earlier rain but it will pass soon with such a cloudless sky. The river glistens in the sunlight and Londoners peek out of their homes and offices like meerkats. They walk along the water, Hannah's hand trails on the railing, she's lost in thoughts. He wants to make her snap out of it but he's never been good at small talk.

On the left, there's a sign for the Inner Temple Gardens and she guides him there. They walk past the ironwork gate and huge centennial trees. Between high Victorian buildings, they find a park, much larger than it looked from the street.

She points an empty bench away from the path, beside a pine tree and a bed of fragrant chrysanthemum, and they sit on it.

"Alright, I'll tell you what happened— the short version— because you told me about what happened to you when I asked."

Alec nods and tries his best to look attentive, knowing this can't be easy. Hannah takes a deep breath as if steeling herself for what's to come.

"He was a client, a regular, I thought I could trust him. He asked me to come to his house one night and he… he locked the door and he attacked me." Her voice falters and she clenches her fists, Hardy takes her hand offering silent support even as his blood boils at the thought of someone hurting her. "He didn't— I wasn't… I escaped just in time. More scared than hurt... almost. I have this friend, Bambi, she took me to the hospital and convinced me to go to the police. Turns out, I wasn't the first one to report him. I was so angry, you know, that they knew and hadn't arrested him yet, I gave them hell, bloody Monroe and his fucking, stupid face… Anyway, he's in jail now, not Monroe, the other, I made sure he would be."

Adrenaline courses through Hardy, he's ready to find that man and beat him to a pulp. Not that it would change anything. And he has questions, a lot of them about the investigation and the nature of her injuries. But he remembers psychology classes and being taught how to help victims at the Police College. He swallows his anger and puts an arm around her shoulders, she snuggles into his embrace without a second thought.

In front of them, a heron lands one the edge of the pond. He tries to catch the carps swimming idly in the water, but even with his long, pointy beak, he can't get through the mesh wire to eat them. They witness in silence his fruitless efforts until he gives up and flies away.

"That why you stopped being an escort?" Hardy asks after what feels like an appropriate amount of time.

"Yeah. Not entirely though, it still happens every once in a while, with VIP clients, but it's always during the event, it's safe."

She straightens up and smiles at him, clearly having decided that she'd had enough with painful recollections.

"Fancy an ice cream?"

They stand up to walk the rest of the park back to the Strand where they find a small ice-cream shop. He orders a fat-free mango sorbet and she has one as well in solidarity. They lean back against the brick wall in a spot of sunlight. She tells him about an awkward dinner at her friend Charlotte's house with her submissive husband. She gushes about her dog, and being a godmother to Jackie's second child, a little girl called June, and she doesn't much care for babies but June is so much better than regular kids.

Hardy is just amazed by her, by how she's grown in the last two years, by her strength.

"I suppose I am strong, except for…"

"What?"

"Well, you know, commitment, relationships, I gave up after Ben… Maybe I should give it another try."

He holds his breath, waiting for her next words but she doesn't say anything else. She throws the little plastic bowl in a bin and looks at her mobile again.

"I should get going."

He almost asks her to cancel like she once asked him to cut class.

She looks around for a taxi. There's one coming their way but she doesn't raise her arm. She turns to Alec.

"Alright, I want to see you again, I'll be your something. BUT not your nurse or your life coach."

He tries to hold back the massive grin about to appear on his lips.

"No."

"And I'll hold you up to what you said, if you don't do what you have to, to get better, I'm going to kick your arse."

"Alright, but don't you go thinking I'm only doing it for you," he replies in the same mock-stern tone.

They both laugh at that and they step forward to hug as naturally as if they'd never stopped.

The hug lingers on, tightens as if trying to make up for all the times they'd spent apart. She's shaking in his arms and he strokes her back soothingly as she clutches his shirt.

"I'm not making any promises," she says, "and neither are you."

"No promises."

And so it begins.

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you for reading, I put a lot of time and efforts in that fic so I would really appreciate it if you could leave a comment :-)


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